


It Was Probably The Pumpkins

by karategal



Series: A Hobbit in the Lonely Mountain [9]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Dwarf Culture & Customs, Established Relationship, F/M, Family, Hobbit Culture, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Interspecies, Jealous Thorin, M/M, Overprotective Dwarves, Political Alliances, Semi-Public Sex, Xenophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2015-01-16
Packaged: 2018-03-02 08:30:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2806115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karategal/pseuds/karategal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dís doesn't appreciate it when people flirt with her brother. Most specifically, her very rich and <em>married</em> brother. So, when a bunch of dwarven harpies attempt to run the princess' favorite hobbits out of the Lonely Mountain, Dís decides to take matters into her own vengeful hands. </p><p>Never underestimate the ingenuity of a pissed off dwarven princess.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter I

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters or actors from _The Hobbit_. Everything belongs to the great and powerful J.R.R. Tolkien.

Dís was the true brains behind the Line of Durin and everybody knew it.

For as long as she could remember, being the voice of reason and common sense had been her primary purpose in life, right up there with cooking breakfast, producing the newest heirs to a fallen kingdom, and smacking Thorin upside his fat, directionally-challenged head. That last one was particularly important since Thorin tended to cause an unhealthy amount of ruin and mayhem whenever he got too big for his breeches. Honestly, how one lone dwarf could create such melodramatic chaos was beyond her ability to comprehend, but her dear brother managed to do it on a semi-regular basis.

And Dís was left to clean up the mess. How typical.

Like right now, brother dearest was standing atop an elevated platform in Erebor's Gallery of Kings, making a grand speech about the reconstruction of the Lonely Mountain and how many precious stones were being mined and wares were being sold in the market and how far the dwarves of Durin's Folk had come in restoring their place in both the world of dwarves and Arda as a whole. For being such a quiet and broody bastard, Thorin could give a marvelously long-winded speech when he really put his scattered marbles to it. Dís would've been as impressed as their subjects if she hadn't seen him practicing said speech on a suit of armor last night.

"He's very good at this."

Dís turned to the young lady next to her and said, "My brother enjoys hearing himself speak. You should've heard him scolding the boys when they were small. I'm surprised their ears didn't fall off."

"For some reason, I don't think that would've stopped them."

"Probably not."

Sigrid wandered off a short while after that, excusing herself to locate Bain and Tilda amongst the crowd that had formed in the gigantic hall. Thankfully, both of their heads were quite visible above the sea of dwarves, Bain's most recent growth spurt easily putting him at the same height as his very tall father. And much to her boys' distress, it was becoming more and more clear that Sigrid and Tilda had inherited those same traits from Bard as well. The eldest Lady of Dale now had at least a good head and a half on Erebor's King and Princes.

And her brother was still prattling on and on. Didn't he ever run out of air?

"By Mahâl, I should've sewn his mouth shut when I had the chance," lamented the princess. "It would've saved me so much grief over the decades. And look at all these poor saps, just drinking it up like the rocky lumps that they are."

The Lady Under the Mountain crinkled her nose in disgust when a small herd of dwarf women bustled past, all of them twittering about the King and Princes and what kind of gifts they were going to give the royals later in the evening. Durin's Day was always a grand event in Erebor and it was traditional for nobles and other high-ranking officials to present the royal family with gifts to commemorate another successful year of strength and peace in their beloved homeland. And considering how the mountain had only been reclaimed a little over five years, it wasn't surprising that Ereborians were very excited about celebrating the holiday and had gathered in mass numbers to partake in the festivities their King and his Council had orchestrated for them.

However, the fawning over her very _married_ brother was growing quite...tedious and downright annoying.

She had spent the past two days snickering at her sons, quietly observing their valiant attempts to kill at least a half dozen dwarves with their death glares alone. Everyone assumed that Fíli would be the more vicious of the princes due to his age and serious nature, but Kíli was the one that simpering lasses had to watch out for. The youngest son of Dís was very protective of his hobbit-y uncle and cousin, taking any insult against Bilbo and Frodo as an insult against himself. Dís had wondered several times if she would have to intervene on her son's behalf, especially during yesterday's dinner in the communal dining hall.

Kíli had looked about ready to rip the whiskers off a Firebeard lass who'd gotten a little too handsy with Thorin, dark eyes narrowing when the dwarf had situated herself right between the Longbeard King and his Consort at a buffet table. Only Frodo's sudden appearance and clambering for attention at Thorin's legs had stayed her son's surprisingly sharp tongue. It would've been an impressive sight, if it had come to be.

"My dear, sweet, loving amad!"

And speak of the silver-tongued, messy-haired devil. Her mother had been right; think his name and he appears...

"What did you do this time?"

Kíli pouted. "Why do you always assume I've done something wrong?"

"Because you have that sickly sweet look on your face," said Dís as she reached out to straighten the lad's disheveled hair. "And your fingers are twitching in that shifty way that you never notice. So, I'll ask again, what did you do now?"

Like a candle being snuffed out, Kíli's happy-go-lucky grin morphed into a monstrous scowl, his dark eyes flitting to the far side of the room. It didn't take long for Dís to spot the recipients of her youngest son's glare, which was a small group of female dwarves standing right below Thorin's podium, half of them appearing to be Longbeards while the remaining four were a possible mix of Firebeards and Broadbeams. Dís had no idea what they had done to earn Kíli's wrath, but it must have been something pretty damn stupid and ill-advised.

"Please tell me you're not going to set them on fire again."

"How many times do I have to tell you that that was Fíli," whined the younger dwarf. "And he said it was an accident. Not that I believe him, of course, but that lady's skirt was barely singed, anyways."

Dís pinched the bridge of her nose and said, "That's beside the point. Now tell me what you're up to? I can't handle another diplomatic incident tonight."

"Those ladies have been conspiring against Uncle Bilbo for days," said Kíli, a small arrow twisting back and forth between his fingers. "I overheard them saying some things in the hallway and they were downright awful and I've been following them ever since. If there wasn't so many of them I wouldn't be concerned, but they all seem to think that Uncle's just using Bilbo as a front and will take a dwarf consort at the soonest opportunity."

"You know that this kind of talk isn't unheard of, Kíli. There's only so much we can—"

"They're trying to get into Uncle's bed, Amad." If possible, her son looked even angrier, which was quite the feat. "That one with the emerald beads and blond hair has been following him for days and even tried to give him a comb the other evening. And Bilbo was standing right there. It's insulting and degrading and I won't have them acting like that towards my uncle. Either of them."

It only took a few seconds for Dís to realize that her son was genuinely distressed, the arrow moving faster and faster between his fingers until she could barely see it. When it came to familial dysfunction and instability, Kíli had always been the more sensitive of her two boys, but this level of agitation was unusual and made Dís pause for a short time to reevaluate the situation.

"And I assume you wish to present me with concrete evidence to assure future assistance?"

Kíli's smile was downright evil. She was so proud.

The next two hours dragged on and on with the princess and youngest prince having to schmooze and mingle with the visiting diplomats, guildmasters, Dyrian tribal leaders, and several of Dale's council members. Dís played her part to the letter, subtly coaching Kíli as they moved from dwarf to nobleman to dwarf to some kind of warrior that she wasn't quite sure what he really was. But her son played his part well and no wars were declared; a good day in Dís' opinion.

It was shortly after high noon when Kíli grabbed his mother's hand and said, "They're heading off for their twittering, Amad. And they've been glaring at Uncle Bilbo for the past half hour, so I have a feeling I know what they'll be ranting about. C'mon!"

"Your braids are mine if this turns out to be a wild goose chase."

"So little confidence."

"And so little time, so move it!" ordered Dís as she gave her son a solid push towards the nearest exit. "Don't forget to wave to the nobles, either. They'll self-combust if you don't acknowledge them."

"Isn't that what we want?"

"Only after we've secured treaties and trade agreements with them. They're worthless until then. Now smile and wave, mizimith, smile and wave."

Kíli groaned. "I hate being a prince."

"You won't be one for much longer if you don't listen and do what I tell you. And stop looking so miserable. It's unprincely."

"Bossy, bossy."

After Dís excused her son and herself from the festivities to prepare for the evening feast, the pair disappeared into one of the hidden tunnels that Nori and his minions were known to frequent, easily locating three barely-visibly marks that were located next to an invisible doorway. All of Nori's tunnels had small and seemingly senseless markings carved into the corners of them, thus allowing the tunnel crawler to navigate through the pitch blackness that enveloped the spymaster's realm. This simple system gave Dís and Kíli the ability to follow their targets' voices through the passageways, eventually climbing up a flight of stairs that allowed them to observe the group of dwarves from a nearby ceiling.

Enlisting Nori's expertise may have been helpful, but Erebor's spymaster was busy watching an unscrupulous Ironfist noble for the next few evenings. Dís had no doubt that at least three of his minions knew about their movements, though. They weren't Nori's pride and joy for nothing.

"I don't think this is going to work. He's already been made—"

"Nonsense! I staked my claim and intent decades before that butterball was even able to write his letters," said a voice that made Dís' eyes narrow. "Besides, who has ever heard of a non-dwarf ruling at _any_ level of dwarven society. It's unspeakable!"

She recognized that voice. That horrid, sickeningly saccharine voice.

"He refused to accept your comb, Makla. I dislike the thought of a halfling being Consort just as much as you do, but there's only so much that can be done. Someone's been watching us and the last thing we need is an incident that would get your father in—"

"I won't involve him like Hakla did! That turned out to be an utter disaster."

"You've already managed to attend dinners in the royal hall with your mother. Considering how few are permitted to even enter the royal wing, I think that says quite a bit for your potential success."

"And the halfling has scarcely been seen with the King for quite some time," said another honeyed voice that made Dís want to gag. Honestly, this is what their ancient race had come to? Maybe extinction was the better outcome. "I've heard rumors circulating about there being discontent in their marriage. Halflings are such strange creatures, I wouldn't be surprised if His Majesty is now regretting such a swift set of nuptials."

"Those feet are disgusting, too. Did you see them this morning? Dirt all over the place! I can't imagine what he steps in on a daily basis. Ugh..." 

"If we can establish you and your family within the King's inner circle, and the halfling has reason to leave and return to his homeland, it would be within the King's rights to annul the marriage and take a rightful, dwarven bride. There's no precedent for inter-race marriages, so the bride would likely be treated with as much respect and legitimacy as any other dwarven consort. Perhaps even moreso, considering the first consort and his complete lack of respectability."

And that was it.

With a grunt of exertion, Dís was barely able to restrain her youngest son before he went charging off, steam all but hissing out of Kíli's ears and nose as he listened to his beloved uncle being slandered by a bunch of hook-nosed harpies. Keeping a tight hold on Kíli's shoulder, Dís signed several Iglishmêk words into his hand and tugged the irate prince back toward the tunnel entrance. It was only once they were a sufficient distance away that she finally spoke out loud to him.

"I recognize that name. And that voice. It's deeper with age," Dís admitted, "But just as irritating and honeyed as I recall. Awful memories."

"Who is she?"

"Do you remember that horrid dwarf who your uncle courted for several weeks? Shortly before your fortieth birthday?"

"Of course, how could I forget her," mumbled Kíli with a blush. "She made fun of me the whole time and spread rumors all over the Blue Mountains about you consorting with an elf and me being the byproduct. Fíli chopped her braids off."

"Aye, her name was Hakla," said Dís with a nasty smirk. She'd been so proud of Fíli that day that Thorin had accused her of resembling a male peacock. "And that back there is Makla, her younger sister. They look nothing alike, which is probably the reason why she's been overlooked by all of us so far. And I'm assuming that's also why her father and sister haven't shown their ugly mugs, either."

"Maybe the sister's dead."

"We're never that damned lucky," grumbled the princess. "But I have an idea that'll put them all in their rightful places. It'll take some careful coordination, but it's doable. Come, mizimith, I need to find your uncle and you need to find Dáin. We'll be needing his loud mouth and shameless idiocy for this."

"Dáin?"

"What can I say? Desperate times call for desperate measures."

**_Forty minutes later..._ **

"Ugh, Dís? Where are we going?"

"To your rooms."

"But the festivities are that way," said Bilbo, nearly tripping over his feet when they took a sharp left. "I'll be late and Thorin will be most—"

"My brother can suck on a lemon for all I care. C'mon, hurry up!"

Dís dragged her brother-in-law into his bedchambers, tossing the bewildered hobbit onto a nearby chair before she started rummaging through her brother's cabinets and bureau and anything else that might contain what she was looking for. Thorin had never been very good at hiding things and what was his was hers and what was hers was his and all that fine babble. Okay, maybe that last part wasn't so true, but Dís didn't really care at the moment.

"Ah ha! Here it is!"

She bustled over to the chair and grabbed Bilbo's head, turning it this way and that in order to get a good look at his ears. Big and pointy and leaf-like they certainly were, but her dear brother was utterly besotted with them and Dís knew just what would get his diamonds grinding. If those clothy-haired bints thought they could steal Thorin's attention, then they were in for a rude awakening.

"Okay, I think this will work just fine," said Dís, fingers gently pulling Bilbo's left ear into position. "This may itch a little bit, but I'm positive that it was designed specifically for this particular ear. No squirming."

"Dís, I really think that we should be heading down to the—"

"And no talking."

It only took a minute for Dís to latch the golden dragon onto her brother-in-law's ear. The crafting was exquisite and Dís didn't doubt that her brother had spent many hours laboring over the tiny piece of jewelry. Shards of the Arkenstone glittered all along it, gently wrapping around Bilbo's ear and coming to a head on the tip, which sported the dragon's head and shimmering eye. A tiny arrow could just barely be seen, embedded directly in the exposed belly where Bard the Bowman had shot Smaug five years ago.

Thorin had truly outdone himself.

"One accessary down," said Dís as she disappeared back into her brother's closets, "Three more to go. If I can find them, of course. Blasted oaf, why can't he ever organize his stuff in a color-based system."

"Are you alright in there?"

"I've found them!" crowed the princess. "Now take your clothes off. Don't look at me like that! I'm trying to help you here."

She paused and looked him over.

"But keep the mithril shirt on. Both for protective and aesthetic purposes. Well, c'mon, we haven't got all day, do we?"

Bilbo just stared at her with wide eyes, toes twitching in the universal sign of an attempted escape. But Dís was prepared and made a grab for the hobbit before he could make it two feet, depositing him back in the chair before throwing a waistcoat, trousers, and overcoat onto his lap, eyebrows raised in an unmistakable gesture of, "Go ahead, try to run again, I dare you."

"Okay, have it your way."

By the time Dís was done with him, Bilbo looked every inch the Dragon-Riddler he had proven to be in real life. The waistcoat and jacket that Bilbo now wore had both been specially designed by Dori, who had jumped at the chance to create an ensemble that would chronicle their Consort's deeds against the Greatest Calamity of the Third Age. The former was made from a beautiful golden fabric, small acorn buttons traveling up the middle while an embroidered dragon of dark blue thread twisted around the rest of it. In contrast, the hobbit-y jacket was dark blue with fur trimmings, purposely designed to resemble the King's most favored surcoat, except with less pomp and a lovely golden depiction of Smaug along the collar, wrists, and lower edges.

"You look wonderful," crowed Dís, clapping her hands with glee. "And now for the final touches."

"I really don't think this is—"

"Oh shush."

With a dramatic flourish, Dís placed the golden circlet upon Bilbo's head, carefully rearranging his coppery curls and the marriage braids that were tucked behind the hobbit's pointed ears. This was yet another piece of jewelry Thorin had created, but thought no one knew about. Unfortunately for him, Dís lived up to her role as the nosy little sister and enjoyed rummaging through Thorin's things when he acted the least bit shifty. And he had acted particularly shifty one Trewsday morning about three months ago, so Dís had decided to do some investigating on the kingdom's behalf.

"My brother's crafting abilities are no less than exquisite," she said with unconcealed pride. "And would you look at that? It fits perfectly. Thorin had to have measured your cranium at some point. Even the loops near the ears are shaped at just the right angle to accommodate your braids."

"Dís, where did you find this?"

"That's not important right now. Oh, don't look at me like that." She attempted to rearrange Bilbo's curls into some semblance of order, and failed quite miserably. "Just ask my brother when he manages to pick his jaw up from the floor. Aye, that is one fine looking piece of jewelry."

"It's shaped like a dragon."

The princess reached out to touch the circlet and said, "Don't tell my brother this, but I do believe this is his finest work."

"Well, that would certainly stroke his ego."

Dís leaned back and admired the serpentine crown, which truly was shaped in just the right manner to fit Bilbo's fragile head and accommodate his pointed ears. Tiny scales were etched into the gold, some of them containing rubies that glittered in the candlelight. It was all crafted in such a way that the dragon almost looked real, its Arkenstone eye glaring at her from atop Bilbo's forehead. And was that mithril along the dragon's belly and jaws?

Elegant, dainty, subtle...

Such strange words to associate with her brother's craft. Dís was the jeweler of the family, not Thorin. Her brother usually favored blacksmithing and the more robust aspects of silver and gold crafting over the infamously tedious work that came with his sister's occupation of choice. All it took was a single glance to determine that this wasn't Thorin's usual brand of creation; it must have taken him weeks of painstaking and meticulous work to complete such a complicated project in an unfamiliar field. Not to mention how many _very_ precious gems and metals had been required to make it.

Glóin must've spent days digging through the Royal Treasury for so much mithril. And then there was the Arkenstone shard...

It was a manifestation of true dwarven love, and no one could tell Dís otherwise. Her brother had made many stupid mistakes in his life—dragging her darling boys off on a foolish, suicidal quest to kill a Mahâl-forsaken dragon was just the tip of that ridiculous iceberg—but loving and wedding Bilbo Baggins of Bag End was not one of them. Any dwarf worth their whiskers could see the intense love that had been carved into every millimeter of the circlet, the rubies and gold seeming to glint and glow and reflect the luster of her brother's fiery passion.

Thorin Oakenshield was madly in love with his hobbit and anyone who didn't see that after tonight was either touched in the head _or_ needed to be touched in the head. And said touching would be done with Dwalin's hammer, if the guard captain had any say in it.

"Okay, I think we're ready."

"And yet I still have no idea what I'm supposed to be ready for," said Bilbo, eyebrow raised in the amused manner he often used on his dwarves. "Will we be commemorating the death of Smaug? Because I think Bard and Bain should also be involved if that's the case."

"Hobbits are such charming creatures."

"What do—whoa!"

Dís laughed as she frog-marched Bilbo out of the room and down the hallway. "I believe it's time to pay my dear brother a visit. And chase off some harpies, too."

"You're up to something dastardly. And I don't think I'm going to like it."

"Oh, you're gonna _love_ it. Trust me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I seriously love the concept of Dís and her role in Thorin's life. I can just picture her being vengefully protective of her family, especially the more physically and culturally vulnerable ones like Bilbo and Frodo. After all, who else could Fíli and Kíli have inherited their clever and mischievous natures from, right?
> 
> P.S. - Allow this story to be a balm to your _BOFA_ -ravaged souls.


	2. Chapter II

"How do I always get roped into your schemes?"

"It's the natural process of being a Durin," said Dís as she picked up a large box from the kitchen counter. "Is there a good reason why we'll be carrying seven boxes down to the feast?"

"They're not that heavy," defended the hobbit. He signaled for three guards to help them with the boxes before finally going out and down the hallway. "And I spent all last night slaving away on these things. Ah ah, don't you dare open that yet!"

"Why not?"

"Because you'll spoil the surprise and I don't want anyone seeing these until later tonight."

"Hobbits are cruel creatures."

After they arrived in the lower halls, Bilbo directed the guards to where he wanted the boxes placed, instructing one of them to remain behind and make sure nobody tried to take them. This was done in exchange for some baked goods and time off later in the evening. Most of the royal guards adored their Consort since he treated them fairly and often gave the guards extra food whenever they were stuck working holidays or just for the hell of it.

Dwalin's intimidating and thorough selection process helped, too.

It took a little bit of persuasion, but Dís was eventually able to pry Bilbo away from the kitchen staff who had stopped to speak with their favorite royal. The hobbit had been working on a new recipe with some of the exotic spices Easterling traders had given him as a diplomatic gift, and Bilbo had been so delighted by the package he nearly bowled Thorin clean over in his eagerness to get down to the kitchens and experiment with them. No one was quite sure what the recipe would taste like, but Dís was more than willing to bet it'd be delicious.

Everything her brother-in-law whipped up was tasty and mouth-watering. Hobbits had a magical touch with food, she'd swear by it.

"Should I be expecting some new, scrumptious meal in the near future?" asked Dís with a shameless grin. "Because that sounded suspiciously like a mysterious new meal being planned back there."

"You'll just have to wait and see, my Lady."

"Aunt Dís!"

Small arms wrapped around the princess' legs like a squishy leech, the jam-covered face of a gap-toothed faunt smiling right up at her. Dís wasted no time in scooping up her favorite person—and there truly was no choosing a favorite amongst her three rascals, as any mother or aunt would know—in the world, not caring in the slightest about the crumbs and jam smeared all over Frodo's little face. After the near-deaths of Fíli and Kíli five years ago, Dís never failed to take an opportunity to kiss the stuffing out of her family's only children.

Frodo just happened to be the most receptive to those kisses, soaking up any maternal affection he could get. And since Primula Baggins could no longer provide her son with such loving care, Dís would more than happily make up for it in her absence. It was the least Dís could do for a woman whose life had been cut so short, and she would have wished for someone to do the same for Fíli and Kíli if something equally tragic had happened to her.

"By Yavanna," squawked Bilbo, "Look at your face! Did you nosedive straight into the pie?"

"No."

"Well, that says one thing about my parenting—"

"That was Fíli."

"I don't even wanna know what his braids look like," said Dís with a groan. "Honestly, I did _not_ raise those boys to eat like a bunch of filthy goblins. Oh, and here comes the boar himself."

"Amad!"

"Your beard's blue, you little devil."

"I think it's quite dashing," said Fíli. He even waggled his mustache braids to make a point. "Bofur thinks it'll start a new trend among the nobles. Mahâl knows they try to kiss up to us enough. I can see them attempting it."

"Oh yes, very dashing. I'll remember that when Tilda mistakes you for a giant blueberry."

"The sarcasm hurts, Amad."

Her son leaned in close after that, eyes flitting over to make sure Bilbo was distracted with fussing over the sticky mess that was Frodo Baggins. Where the Consort had hidden a handkerchief was anybody's guess, but Dís had learned not to underestimate the ability of hobbits to hide stuff on their person.

"So, what's the plan?"

"I assume you've spoken with your brother," stated Dís, her voice lowered so only they could hear it. "Did he at least explain the basics?"

"To be honest, I'm surprised Kíli didn't try something sooner."

"Oh really?"

"I had to restrain him from dropping a bagful of fleas on a Firebeard noble the other morning."

"Did Currin give those to him?"

Fíli snickered and shook his head. "Actually, no, it was Tauriel and that young ranger who's been accompanying her and Legolas as of late. I suspect they received the fleas from Currin or one of her brothers, though."

"Quite the lethal combination, that lot is."

"Well, and I saw Tauriel trying to—and I really must emphasize the trying part—wrestle Currin down to the de-fleaing stalls earlier today." The crown prince didn't even try to restrain a nasty grin. "A few Firebeards may have been down there as well. It seems our favorite wolf took one for the cause, I fear."

"I'll send her a whole deer in compensation."

"Already did."

Dís laughed. "You're becoming quite good at this."

"Well, I _am_ the heir."

Her oldest son had been acting as Bilbo's unofficial bodyguard for the past few days, subtly insulting anyone who dared to give his uncle even the slightest degree of derision or disrespect. Fíli was usually the more quiet of Erebor's princes, which led many nobles and council or guild members to underestimate him. With a little bit of coaching from Balin and his mother, Fíli had learned to use this to his advantage, adapting with ease to the inner-workings of the kingdom's guilds and inter-clan or race politics. Unlike the current King, there was a very good chance Fíli would be a natural diplomat, resolving issues between various groups without even needing to threaten their tongues or their dwarfhood.

"So," drawled Dís, "What's your contribution in this?"

"A very simple and straightforward approach," said Fíli. "Therefore, I've determined having Frodo there will help clinch it."

The princess nodded in agreement, watching as Bilbo attempted to remove some jam from Frodo's unruly curls. If her brother had a weakness for anything, it was Bilbo and Frodo. Combine the two together and Erebor's King was like putty in your hands. Seeing Bilbo in his current attire _and_ having Frodo in his arms? Oh, Thorin would be a total goner.

"I think this will work out well," said Dís with no small amount of glee. "Let's find your uncle."

"Ori's ready and waiting to document it."

"Excellent."

With a quick survey of the dwarven masses, Dís spotted her brother on the opposite side of the hall, somehow surrounded yet again by a bunch of twittering nobles and their repugnant offspring. Now, many siblings would choose to leave their oh-so-irritating kin to rot with the bootlickers, but no, Dís was a good, loving sister and she had worked way too hard to stage this elaborate and entirely manipulative rescue to just let it go to waste. With a firm nod to Fíli, the princess cracked her knuckles and made a grab for her dragon-esque brother-in-law.

"I'll never understand how the whole lot of you manage to get so dirty when you don't even live out in the—whoa!"

"Now, now, there's no need for squirming," said Dís, both hers and Fíli's smiles far too wide for deception's sake. But they were past the point of return now, so it mattered little. "We'll be going this way, dear burglar."

Out of the corner of her eye, Dís could see Makla and her horde of harpies standing right next to Thorin, posture far too relaxed and hands far too handsy to be mistaken for anything other than shameless flirting. Even if the little trollop wasn't trying to steal her brother from right underneath Bilbo's hobbit-y nose, the princess would still want to crush Makla's irritating ambition under her steel-toed boots. As a member of the Longbeard's royal line, she had dealt with Makla's type preying on the males of her family, and had even needed to beat several off of Víli during their initial courtship.

Makla had no idea who she was messing with, but Dís was more than willing to teach her a lesson in proper etiquette. Too long had her family been on the edge of ruin and extinction, and she wasn't about to let some narcissistic brat with an ego problem destroy the first shred of stability Dís had had in decades. The marriage between her and Víli had ended in death and tragedy, but Dís wasn't about to let the same happen to Thorin.

Her brother deserved happiness and security more than anybody else in the world. So if she had to publically embarrass or shame a bunch of over-ambitious lasses and lads in the process, then she'd do it. It was good training for Fíli and Kíli, too.

"Can I have some more pie?" said Frodo, effectively knocking Dís out of her darker thoughts. "I'm still hungry. See? My tummy's rumbling."

"In a bit, mizimith."

Dís pushed through the crowd, hobbit tucked safely under her arm, and then cleared her throat when they arrived before Thorin and his little group of gaggling sycophants. It only took a moment for her brother to turn around, dark eyes immediately scanning her and Bilbo's faces. And then the Dwarf-King took a longer look and his back went ram-rod straight and his hands started to twitch.

Oh, this was good. Very, very good.

No one knew Thorin better than his baby sister—and Dwalin could just stuff it, he never actually had to share a bed or toilet with His Royal Gruffness—and Dís took no small amount of pride in her ability to read Thorin's not-so-subtle tells. And at the moment, she was reading them like a wide open book, most specifically one of those that had big letters and was meant for small children.

"Could we possibly borrow a minute of the King's time?" asked Dís, voice sickly sweet. "It won't take long, I assure you."

Everyone turned to stare at the King, who was completely oblivious and far too busy staring at Bilbo to notice anybody else. It took all of Dís' willpower not to cackle and dance with delight, her arm loosening just a little bit around Bilbo's shoulders in an attempt to catch her brother's attention. And... just as she thought, Thorin was so totally fixated on his hobbit that he noticed nothing else. And poor Fíli appeared to be in a similar predicament as herself, his very fake-sounding coughs garnering more than a few bewildered looks from those around them.

"Let's head over to Bifur's stand, nadad."

No sooner had Dís reached out for Thorin before a series of shrieks sounded from several feet away, a large group of dwarves nearly toppling over themselves to get out of the way of... whatever was charging through them. Fíli even whistled in appreciation when one dwarf went flying through the air, landing atop two miners who had obviously just returned from work. The small plume of dust they created was quite impressive.

"Cousin!"

The pained groan from Thorin was more than a little satisfying and Dís easily stepped out of the way of her charging cousin. Except there was the little problem of Dáin being far too enthusiastic and not the least bit interested in any of his blood relations. So, just as Dís predicted, it was poor Bilbo and Frodo who bore the brunt of Dáin's one-dwarf frontal assault. But they'd survive and that's all that mattered.

"Hello, Dáin," squeaked the older hobbit. "It's good to see you, too."

"No one told me such a grand event was to be held today," said the Lord of the Iron Hills. "And to think, Gella wasn't sure if we'd be able to come this year, but I said that it's the five year anniversary and my cousins' would never skimp on celebrating such a magnificent occasion. We'll have to gather up the—"

"Ugh, Dáin?"

"Aye?"

"You're squishing Frodo. Please let go... Can't...breathe..."

"Oh Mahâl!"

With a flail of his hands, Dáin placed both hobbits on the ground and fretfully looked over them. And it would've been an endearing sight if Thorin hadn't looked like he was going to commit fratricide in the near future. All according to plan, thought Dís with a tiny smirk.

Fíli gave her a wink of approval.

"I always forget that you hobbits are made of softer stuff than us rocky dwarves," said Dáin as he twisted his mustache back into its signature boar tusks. "But that certainly didn't stop you from taking on a dragon, did it? Riddled the damned thing to its own fiery destruction, mighty brave you were." Most of the hall just stared at Dáin, confused by how they should react to him. Obnoxiously loud and bombastic, her cousin was. "What're you buggers looking at?!"

Thorin pinched the bridge of his nose and groaned, "Dáin..."

"Aye, I'll speak with you in a moment, iraknadad, just hold your braids," said the red-haired dwarf. He stood on his tippy-toes and attempted to look over everyone's heads; kinda pointless in Dís' opinion. "Now where are the other two?"

"What other two?"

"The Dragon Slayer and the Dragon Arrow, of course. They've gotta be around here somewhere." Dáin shook his head in disapproval. "You lot need to hire a new planner to handle such large events. Excellent investment, trust me. Gella! Have you seen the Man-King and his wee one?"

All of the surrounding dwarves parted as Dáin barreled away, shouting for his wife and making a grand spectacle of himself the whole time. If Bard and Bain knew what was good for them, they'd make a break for the nearest exit right now. Thankfully, Dís had planned ahead and ordered her youngest son to guard the entrances with some of his archer friends. Sweet Sigrid and Tilda may have been informed of the plot as well.

" _Who_ invited him?"

"I did," admitted Dís. "And I don't see why you're so upset. Dáin's easy to keep under control whenever Gella's nearby, and I doubt she'll be leaving before Durin's Day and the harvest festivals are over."

Due to his bombastic personality, Dáin was often underestimated by dwarves who didn't know him well, including a large chunk of those from the Blue Mountains and other faraway tribes. Aye, her cousin was quite the friendly fellow and would do almost anything for those he cared about, but Dáin was also an incredibly shrewd strategist and general who could manipulate the royal courts just as effectively as his armies. And given the deadly decadence and back-stabbing that had been simmering in the Iron Hills' courts for several decades now, it wasn't surprising that Dáin often played the fool in order to take them off guard, namely where politics and schmoozing was involved. Gella played the politician, Dáin played the general, and they _both_ allowed people to slide them into whatever stereotypical and underestimated niche they wanted.

It was ridiculously effective, and the Line of Durin needed every ally it could get, so Dís wasn't about to turn away a loyal and politically savvy kinsmen like Dáin Ironfoot. Plus, he adored Bilbo and Frodo and that was always a huge bonus in Dís' books. Thorin could just suck it up and get over the silly squabbles they'd had in their youth. Decades of bickering and posturing, and all over what? A stupid toy sword! Honestly, Dís was amazed that their family had survived so long with such stubborn, pig-headed qualities running through it.

"My patience and eardrums will never last that long..."

"Dáin's always a colorful character to have around," said Bilbo, voice soft with that wonderful fondness he seemed to reserve for those dwarves he considered to be his. It was a great feeling and Dís would happily smash in the faces of anyone who tried to take it away from them. "It would be nice if you'd talk to him about raiding the cookie jars, though."

The inbred sycophants just stared at the Consort, eyes narrowed in a terribly disrespectful manner. Honestly, Dís was considering more and more the merits of punching them in the teeth; their stupid faces were really starting to annoy her. It'd be for the good of the kingdom, she would claim. May even stop a few executions and tongue-slicings, depending on Dís' ability to keep Thorin from finding out what the snotty brats had been saying about his beloved hobbits. Her brother had a bit of a possessive paranoia problem when it came to his husband and youngest nephew. Very, very vicious.

"Dwalin was most displeased."

And just like that, her brother's attention was fixated back on Bilbo, pupils dilating and shoulders squaring in that telltale way that would make any sibling grumble and tut and shake their head with disgust. Unfortunately, it was Dís who had orchestrated this whole shebang, so she had nobody to blame but herself.

"I'm hungry."

Never one to hold in his opinion on mealtimes, Frodo was shamelessly eyeing the buffet tables at the far end of the hall, all but bouncing in Bilbo's arms when another round of roasted boar, stuffed pumpkin, and creamy mushroom soup was brought out of the kitchens. Dís moved her hands well out of Frodo's tooth range; one could never be too careful around a hungry hobbit. She preferred her fingers attached, thank you very much.

"Well, we can't have that, now can we?" said Dís, reaching over to kiss Frodo's forehead. "Shall we talk and feed the little one in the mean time?"

Thorin nodded, eyes still glazed over as they roamed every inch of Bilbo, practically undressing the oblivious hobbit right in front of everyone. But seriously, how could those morons not see that her brother was a completely besotted mush-ball for his fuzzy-footed husband? He trailed after Bilbo like a lost puppy, ignoring everyone else in favor of his decked-out hobbit. It was doubtful that there would be more than a few inches between them for the rest of the evening, Thorin wanting to be as close as possible so that he could touch his husband underneath the food tables.

And there would be no dragging Bilbo away from the food because, well, _hobbits_...

It was rather hilarious to watch the disgruntled faces of Thorin's wannabe suitors, several of them looking down their noses at the chattering hobbit while also trying to gain the attention of their unwitting King. And all the while Fíli made obnoxious faces when the harpies weren't looking, easily alternating to a charming smile whenever they attempted to speak or flirt with him.

Being the crown prince could be quite trying at times. Everyone wanted to court and marry you.

"Have you seen Bofur at all?" asked Bilbo when they arrived at the royal dining table. "I've been looking for him all morning and it's very important that he receive my list of extra rations before the end of this evening."

Thorin blinked, as if coming out of a daze. "Rations?"

"Yes, I've been setting aside a surplus of grain for the miners over the last few months," said Bilbo, stacking his plate with a ridiculous amount of food. How tiny hobbits could eat so much in a single sitting was beyond Dís' comprehension. "It took a bit of finagling with Bard and his farmers, but there was enough left after harvest to set aside some extra for our miners. They're the lifeblood of the mountain, so I thought it'd be best to reward them for all of their hard work in recent years."

By Mahâl, it looked like her brother was falling in love all over again.

"That's a wonderful idea."

Bilbo blushed and said, "Well, the harvests have been rather poor since the reclamation, and the miners and lower guild members have been effected by the shortages more than anyone else, so I thought it'd be nice for them to receive what we could spare from the granaries this season. They deserve it."

"A brilliant idea," said Balin. "I'm sure Bofur will be delighted."

"Our hobbits are always brilliant," stated Fíli. He sent a pointed look down the table. "It's a fact of life."

Huh, maybe Dís hadn't needed to go through all of this plotting and manipulating because Thorin looked like he was about to jump Bilbo's bones right there, right now, right in front of everybody in the kingdom. She'd still take credit, of course, but it seemed that her brother had learned how to—

And then the stupid musicians had to go and start playing a catchy tune and the horde got those familiar conniving looks on their faces. As Makla rose from her chair further down the table, Dís turned to her oldest son and discreetly pointed to Bilbo and the little faunt sitting on his lap. Frodo was all but drooling at the plate, eagerly watching as his uncle continued to stack slice after slice of boar on it.

"Time to pull out the big axes."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I forgot to post the other day, just consider this chapter to be a belated Christmas gift. And it looks like this story has gotten a bit longer than I anticipated! The plotting of Dis and her sons is just too fun to write, what can I say. And although I've gotten a bit leery of suggestions in recent months, if anyone would like to put some out there for the upcoming confrontations/humiliations, feel free to send them along to me. A little bit of nasty inspiration is always helpful.


	3. Chapter III

Well, okay, so maybe she didn't need the big axes after all.

No sooner had Makla gotten within fifteen feet of Thorin than a series of loud growls came from underneath the table. It only took a moment for Dís to recognize the sounds as belonging to their kingdom's resident pair of honey badgers, both of whom preferred to stay in their animal form instead of the more human one that many of the wolves favored. Bilbo was sympathetic to their plight and often placed dishes beneath the table so that the sisters could eat along with everyone else. It was one of the reasons why Currin and her merry band of skin-changers were so partial to Erebor's Consort.

"What are you doing?!" shrieked the harpy. "Get away from me!"

The badgers charged right out from between Balin's and Dís' chairs, nearly running over Makla and two of her flunkies in the process. Dwarven skirts and curses went flying, but neither sister appeared to care about anything besides the large platter of potatoes and honeyed ham that had just left the kitchens. However, in a display of miraculous power that Dís could never hope to understand, a loud crack echoed from her right side and both badgers stopped dead in their tracks, less than five feet away from tripping the unfortunate and wide-eyed serving boy.

"Don't swish your tails at me like that, young ladies!" scolded Erebor's Consort. "You'll wait just like everybody else, understand?"

Bilbo was standing up now, right hand raised in a whistling position while the other was pointing at the hissing and snarling badgers. Makla scrambled away from the sisters with a shriek, putting as much distance as possible between their claws and her elaborate skirts. If Dís hadn't known the shape-shifting sisters so well, she might have been concerned for Bilbo's safety, but they were basically throwing the equivalent of a teenaged temper tantrum and it wasn't an unusual sight for anyone who knew the badgers and their individual personalities.

"The hissy posturing is very unbecoming, I can assure you."

Snap, snap!

"Oh, I'm well aware of how hungry you are," said Bilbo, "Or have you forgotten that I'm a hobbit? However, the whole rushing-the-server habit just isn't working anymore. _I_ don't want a repeat of last month's feast, and _you_ don't want a repeat of last month's feast."

Hiss, snap, hiss, snap, snap!

"And that's certainly a valid complaint," assured the hobbit. "But for now, let's just wait for a proper venue to discuss this and get you ladies fed in the meantime, alright? We don't want that ham to go cold, after all."

Snap, hiss, hiss!

"I'll address that in a moment. Now, if you'd be so kind as to wait beneath the table?"

Everyone just stared as the two honey badgers—who were hands down the most aggressive and unpredictable skin-changers that Dís or the Company had ever met—trotted over to Bilbo's feet and disappeared beneath the table without a single threat towards the hobbit's well-being. Instead, it was one of Makla's lackeys who received a decidedly nasty snarl from the smaller sister, back hunched in a way that Dís recognized as defensive and altogether unfriendly, her throat releasing a hoarse _khrya-ya-ya-ya_ sound as she scurried under Bilbo's chair. A few rumbles could still be heard, but the badgers appeared to be behaving themselves for now.

"Well, with that settled for the moment," said Bilbo as he turned to face the dwarves, "I think it's time to address an issue that's arisen in recent months with several of the skin-changers. Ladies Makla and Hrunir?"

Said dwarves spun to face the Consort, obviously surprised that Bilbo even knew their names. Dís considered this new piece of information with a contemplative frown, more than a little curious about how her brother-in-law was at least somewhat familiar with the backstabbing harpies. As far as she knew, Bilbo had had very little interaction with any of the newer arrivals, specifically those of noble and non-Longbeard descent. Thorin didn't like exposing Bilbo and Frodo to any individual or group that hadn't undergone a thorough vetting by Nori and his minions, and this applied doubly so to anyone outside of the Longbeard lines.

Too many threats had been leveled against the hobbits since Erebor's reclamation and Bilbo's ascension to the position of Consort for Thorin and the Company not to worry about their safety. And that didn't even begin to cover all of the suitors who had disregarded his and Thorin's marriage vows. Almost nobody had been interested in Thorin when he'd been exiled and destitute. But now, with Erebor reclaimed and a crown of gold upon his head, Dís' brother was a hot commodity. It angered the princess, sometimes to the point of distraction and evil schemes if the situation called for it.

However, Dís also knew that when it came to unwanted suitors, Makla wasn't the first and she wouldn't be the last. Ugh, what a migraine...

"I would greatly appreciate if the both of you and representatives from your clans would attend Open Court this coming Trewsday," said the hobbit, tone far more of an order than a suggestion. "I'm growing weary of the complaints that my office and couriers have been receiving as of late, and I would prefer to nip this little problem in the bud as quickly as possible."

Makla's lips twitched when she asked, "I'm afraid I've no idea what this is about, Master Baggins."

And you see, that right there made Dís want to rip the smarmy trollop's braids clean off. The majority of Erebor's population addressed Bilbo as Your Highness or My Consort nowadays; it was his rightful claim and title as legal spouse to the King Under the Mountain, and Thorin had started to subtly encourage both his subjects and newcomers to hail Bilbo in a more respectfully dwarven manner. Some still preferred to use his hobbit title, but most of those individuals had known Bilbo before his marriage to Thorin and boasted a degree of familiarity with the Consort himself.

Neither of those two reasons applied to Makla in the slightest. And that stupid, condescending lilt to her voice whenever she said Master Baggins was seriously starting grate on Dís' last nerve. Just one punch, that's all she needed. Really...

"Well, if that is the case, then all the more reason for us to address the issue," said Bilbo, diplomatic smile number-eight firmly in place. It was the one he often whipped out to deal with a misbehaving Fíli or Kíli... Ohhhhh. "The relationship between the dwarves of Erebor and the skin-changers of the northern plains is an essential and sometimes confusing alliance, so an official introduction and information session between them and recently arrived dwarves such as yourselves would probably be helpful for everyone. Ori?"

The scribe seemed to appear from out of nowhere. He waved his quill and said, "You have four open spots in your schedule this coming week."

"Arrange a private session on Mersday with a representative from the Longbeard, Broadbeam, Firebeard, and Stonefoot clans—you can add in anyone else you think may be necessary as well—and make sure to include at least four skin-changers who aren't running patrols," said Bilbo, easily sidestepping the wayward dancers and partygoers that had taken over the open floor beside their dining tables. "If you can somehow wrangle Currin or her brothers into attending, please do so. I would prefer the oldest wolves if at all possible since they're less likely to become...offended by off-color remarks."

"No badgers or bears, I assume?"

"I don't think that would be wise so early in the process. Best to just stick with the wolves and their calmer perspectives for now." Ori nodded in agreement and jotted down everything. "And the public session can be on Trewsday during Open Court—we'll keep it after your meeting with the excavation crews, darling!—which will give some of the other clans and pack members an opportunity to voice their concerns and grievances."

Makla gave him an offended look. "What grievances?"

"I wouldn't have mentioned anything about complaints if I hadn't already received some, Lady Makla," stated Bilbo, giving her yet another smile while Ori showed him what next week's itinerary would look like. "Balin, could you please look this over and add some suggestions? Hmmm, I wonder if we should consult Bard as well..."

"No elves, though."

"Oh goodness, no," said Bilbo. He waved over at Thorin, who looked more than a little affronted. "That would likely lead to rioting and finger chopping and who knows what else, even if Tauriel and Legolas were the ones enlisted for it."

"So, we'll stick with Bard..."

Fíli leaned over and whispered, "What just happened?"

"I think your uncle just used the skin-changers to make Makla and her horde look terrible," said Dís with a confused frown. "Or at least I think that's what happened. I'm not quite sure to be truthful. Did it seem intentional?"

"Haven't a clue."

At the head of the table, Thorin looked just as puzzled as everyone one else felt, his youngest nephew busy wolfing down everything on the King's plate and those around it. And then Bilbo was back at his side, asking Thorin to sign here, here, and here so that they could get on with things and avoid pissing off the badgers and why in the world was he allowing Frodo to eat _four_ loaves of apple bread like a ravenous chipmunk?

"What about the plan?"

Dís stroked her whiskers and said, "We continue with it. Your uncle seems to have some sort of scheme himself, but I'd like to destroy that harpy on my own terms. Call me vindictive, but knocking her down one or ten notches is just too tempting now."

"Maybe we should try to—"

"Cousin!"

Even with Bilbo jabbering in his ear, Thorin almost seemed to have a sixth sense to predict Dáin's approach, hands shooting up with a bread-eating Frodo held in front of him like some sort of sacrificial barrier. It was quite pathetic, in Dís' opinion.

"I've found the Dragon-Slayer and his wee one," said Dáin with a proud smile. "Now we can truly start the celebrations!"

"What are you talking about?"

"The competitions, of course. It's Durin's Day, or have you forgotten such things as dates and holidays in your old age, cousin?"

Dáin puffed up like a giant squirrel, quite obviously proud of himself and whatever he had concocted in that loony mind of his. In the meantime, Dís would reserve judgment and adjust her plans accordingly. If Dáin was planning what Dís suspected he was planning, then she should be able to twist the situation to her advantage, especially since Bilbo seemed to have his own methods of retribution, too.

And then the Dwarf-Lord sent her a conspiring wink, quick as a flash and well hidden from everyone else around them. Ah, so he'd been planning something all along, it seemed. How very... Dáin-ish...

"I thought we agreed that those would not resume until next year," said Thorin, one hand occupied with holding Frodo while the other rested on the small of Bilbo's back. "We haven't had the time nor the budget to prepare for such festivities, as I reminded you earlier today."

"There's no need for anything on such a grand scale," reasoned Dáin, "But a few friendly contests of arms wouldn't be remiss. Boost morale and allow our people to see how skilled Erebor's soldiers truly are, eh?"

Lo and behold, there was the constipated look that her brother had trademarked at birth. And she wasn't joking, either; Dís had been around Thorin and his infamous stomachaches enough times to recognize it. Dorwinion and Haradrim cooking was absolute murder if you didn't have the acquired stomach for it, and Thorin had eaten plenty of stuff that hadn't agreed with him over the years. Some of those times had been so nasty that Dís was surprised it hadn't blown out a window or her boys' nose hairs. The Dwarf-King Under the Mountain wasn't quite so kingly as people assumed, at least in the department of noxious gases and early morning hangovers.

Then Bilbo touched Thorin's shoulder and said, "I think it sounds like a good idea. The people will enjoy it."

And just like that, her brother was won over. Gone was the constipated look and back was the besotted swoon, Thorin's lips twitching up into that barely-there smile that he had been sporting more and more often over the past couple years. It always made Dís' heart flutter a bit, inwardly delighted that her stoic and perpetually stressed brother finally had someone to love with all of his awkward heart. It reminded her so much of Víli sometimes that it hurt, but Dís would never begrudge Thorin the happiness that he had worked and nearly died for.

Plus, she got an adorable nephew out of it.

"I suppose some friendly contests wouldn't be too difficult to organize for the evening," conceded the King. He was still eyeing Bilbo's circlet and ear wrap with hooded eyes, fingers twitching off and on with the need to touch his bejeweled husband. "You'll probably want to enlist the help of Dori and his underlings to prevent any type of guild war from breaking out."

"No need," crowed Dáin. "I've already assembled the whole thing. We're about ready to go, I'd say."

"Really?"

"Just have to officially announce it and see how many volunteers we can get for each contest." Dáin looked so pleased with himself. "Helm's rounding up anyone he can find with Glóin's lad and that nephew of yours. We'll even give prizes to the winners."

Thorin pinched the bridge of his nose. "Dare I ask what contests you've concocted?"

"Oh, just the basics like archery, knife-throwing, and basic combat," said the Dwarf-Lord. "Can't have too many more since we've only got three people to hand out the prizes. It'll make it all the more grand, I believe."

"Why only three?" asked Bilbo. "We've plenty of people to represent and award the victors."

"But not if the gifts come from those who participated in the defeat of the Greatest Calamity of the Third Age," stated Dáin with an unholy bounce of glee. "It'll make it all the more competitive and what dwarf worth his beard wouldn't want to receive personally chosen prizes from the three people who made the reclaiming of our homeland possible?"

"Now wait a minute," said Bard, "I never agreed to this."

Dáin waved him off. "You don't have to give anything of great value. The bragging rights alone will keep the victors happy. We dwarves are a simple lot."

The snorts of both Bard and Bilbo were enough to earn glares from several bystanders. Bain attempted to hide his snickers by coughing in a rather fakey manner. No one dared say a word after Thorin's arm wrapped more tightly around his Consort's waist, though. Even Makla kept her mouth shut this time; apparently, she had some self-preservation instinct after all.

"I highly doubt any dwarf would value something from—"

"They will, they will," said Dáin as he grabbed Bilbo and the two human royals. "Now come along, it's time to announce the contests and what gifts will be offered to each of the victors. You have five minutes to make a conclusion. Helm! Get over here!"

With a groan of frustration, Thorin stood up and made to follow their insane cousin, a large loaf of bread in one hand while a still-munching Frodo was cradled in the other. It was amazing how domestic he could be without realizing it.

"I assume this is according to plan?"

"Your brother has done his part marvelously," said Dís with a clap of her hands. "Of course, getting Dáin excited about beating the snot out of people isn't that difficult. He probably jumped on board as soon as Kíli mentioned the words contest and fighting in the same sentence."

"Ladies and Gentlemen! If I can have your attention?!"

With a spring in her step, Dís grabbed a hold of Fíli's and Balin's arms and made her way over to that ridiculous podium that her brother had been speaking atop earlier in the morning. It appeared that the ugly contraption had its uses, after all. Bilbo, Bard, and Bain stood to the sides while Dáin was grandstanding in the middle, arms flailing about as he detailed each of the three contests that would begin one bell before the supper hour. Poor Bain attempted to sneak away on two occasions, but Dáin easily grabbed the lad before he could get more than two feet away from him.

"And for each of our victors," Dáin continued, "There will be a prize of choice from the saviors of Erebor and Dale. Before you ask, the Dragon-Slayer will be representing the archery contest, the young Dragon-Arrow the knife-throwing contest, and our Dragon-Riddler the contest of arms. Now, have you three decided what the victors shall receive as a reward?"

Bard looked mildly pained, but he eventually said, "I'll offer a weekly training session to the victor of my contest. Duration will be determined at a later date."

Excited whispers could be heard from the far side of the hall where Kíli's archery corps was gathered, none of them deterred in the slightest by Bard's heritage or the fact that he was likely decades younger than them. When it came to the bow, Dale's King was the sharpest in the lands and easily rivaled the best of the Woodland Realm. Thorin liked to point this out to Thranduil at every opportunity. Screw the immortal tree-humpers and their twigs of wood, were her brother's exact words.

"I offer a complete set of knives from Ûster Kryl to the victor of my contest," said Bain. "They are said to have been forged in the forest city of Luinemar and blessed by Alatar the Blue."

Every dwarf within the hall started to chatter with amazement, both eager and stunned to hear of a far eastern kingdom that they hadn't seen or done trade with in nearly a hundred and fifty years. Even Dís was impressed by the young prince's offer, and she genuinely wondered if the boy knew just how grand of a reward he had offered to a hall full of weapons enthusiasts. Fíli was all but trembling with excitement at the mere mention of those knives, blue eyes alight with a child-like glee that Dís missed seeing from her oldest son.

"Those beautiful darlings will be mine," stated Fíli. "I will take down this whole kingdom if I have to, I swear by Mahâl and his hammers."

"I'm sure they will be, rûzud-ê."

And then Dáin turned to Bilbo, the hobbit obviously still thinking of what his offer should be and whether or not dwarves would even like it. Bilbo had a very impressive array of facial expressions and Dís prided herself a great deal on being able to read them. This particular expression was most definitely a confused one, his nose scrunching up as he contemplated a worthy prize. It was a rather hilarious look for someone who was decked out in dragon-esque clothes and regalia, not to mention how the King of Erebor himself had been drooling over said flustered hobbit for the better part of an hour now.

"Well, I suppose I'll follow King Bard's example and offer a weekly cooking session to the victor of my contest," said Bilbo with a small smile. "And a batch of their favorite meals once a week as well. Duration will be determined at a later date."

If there had been any doubt that Thorin would be participating in the contest of arms, it was blasted into oblivion after that. A determined and hungry look had overtaken her brother's face, dark eyes firmly trained on his husband and any other dwarves who dared to vie for the honor of both Bilbo's personal time _and_ privately prepared meals. Oh, and would you look at that, the level of aggression was rising and Dís wouldn't be surprised if Thorin threatened to take on the whole mountain. He had gotten much better in recent years, but her brother could still be a typical, possessive dwarf depending on the situation.

"Looks like Uncle's in," snickered Fíli.

Dís nodded with satisfaction. "All according to plan. Somewhat. We'll have to thank Dáin later, as painful as that's going to be."

"Here comes the harpies."

Turning to her left, Dís watched the female dwarves as they approached the gathering competitors, noticing how they immediately congregated around the nobles and other high-ranking officials of Erebor's social pecking order. And although it was true that arranged marriages were uncommon in dwarven society, it wasn't unheard of for dwarves to marry for riches and prestige, either. They weren't so different from other races and cultures in that regard, and not all of Dís' brethren married for love—or were willing to wait for it like Thorin, who was rapidly nearing his second century of age—when material wealth, stability, or social ambition were involved.

"And I see Makla is _still_ eyeing our dear King, too."

"She's a persistent little trollop," said the princess, "I'll certainly give her that. But she'll learn her lesson soon. Just because Bilbo's a hobbit doesn't mean that his marriage to your uncle is unofficial or a scam. Lack of precedent does _not_ mean lack of validity. _Why_ can't these idiots get this through their skulls?"

"Nori's started a betting pool on how the harpies will be...informed of this."

"Good on him."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who sent along suggestions. I imagine that Thorin would be quite sought after for marriage now that he's a king and rich and a war hero several times over and did I mention rich? And since inter-racial marriages appear to be very, very rare in Middle-Earth (I could only find a half-dozen and those almost exclusively involved female elves/male humans), I can also imagine that many dwarves would view Thorin's marriage to Bilbo as invalid, unofficial, or disgusting. 
> 
> Rûzud-ê = "my (blazing or burning) sun"


	4. Chapter IV

Whoever said members of royalty couldn't be complete idiots?

Honestly, Dís sometimes wondered if her family should be nominated for the Biggest Rock Heads Award, because the posturing and strutting and puffing was getting flat out ridiculous at this point. It hadn't taken long for Dáin to assemble as many volunteers as he needed, the Dwarf-Lord happily welcoming anyone who wanted to participate in the competitions while bouncing about to select a group of qualified judges. If Dís hadn't known how jealously her brother-in-law guarded it, she would've guessed that Dáin had found his way into Bilbo's precious stores of Old Toby and Longbottom leaf. The red-haired dwarf was far too excited about watching his kinsmen and women get shot in the ass or thrash one another into bloody pulps.

"Funny," drawled the princess, "But I didn't realize shirtlessness was required for these types of competitions."

Thorin gave her the stink-eye and said, "What I don't understand is why you aren't off cheering for someone who appreciates your illustrious attention?"

"Now, now, there's no need to get cranky."

"Go annoy Fíli and Kíli," snapped Thorin. He was adjusting his pant strings and belt, pointedly ignoring the twittering harpies that were still hovering around the designated waiting area. "And would you please stop picking at my hair?"

"Well, maybe if you brushed it more often then I wouldn't have to de-knot it all the time."

"You're the bane to my existence."

"Oh, hush up and stand still, you gigantic oaf," said Dís, fingers pulling and lacing through her brother's hair. Bilbo was stuck at Dáin's side since he was one of the prize-givers, so it was up to Dís to ready Thorin for the competition. "You're almost as bad as Kíli sometimes, I swear."

"Now that's just plain insulting."

"If you think I don't know that you're trying to distract me, then we need to work on your deductive skills, nadad." She looped two braids and clamped them together at the back of Thorin's head; along with the twin marriage braids, they would keep the front strands out of her brother's face. "The boys will fare just fine in their competitions. Ori agreed to assist Kíli and Bifur will be with Fíli. They have more than enough support."

"So I get stuck with my scheming sister?"

Dís gave an extra hard tug to the reverse braid she was working onto the back of Thorin's head. The Dwarf-King almost yelped, swatting at her hands when they dug into his scalp for another clump of hair. Braiding each other's hair was a routine that Dís and Thorin had shared for well over a century, both of them knowing how the other preferred their braids and what styles they favored for certain situations. Of course, this also meant that they knew each other's weak spots, and Dís was quite familiar with the fragile patch of skin above her brother's right ear.

It hurt like a bitch when tugged at just the right angle.

"You should feel blessed by my presence," said Dís, securing a large silver and aquamarine bead on the end of Thorin's braid. She had crafted it herself before the Quest for Erebor, hoping that it would serve as a good luck charm. "I'm a busy lady who scarcely has time for the men in her life as it is. A little bit more appreciation would be rightly expected, I believe."

"Whatever it is you are planning, know that I'm onto you."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," she said, stepping back to observe her braid work. "By Mahâl, you're so paranoid."

"No, I'm really not. And you're planning something." Thorin turned around and crossed his arms, looking at her with a raised eyebrow. "You've got that evil air about you, and that's never a good sign for my sanity."

"Oh, stop being so melodramatic. Would you rather Frodo be preparing you?"

"Yes."

"I'm afraid you'll have to duel Dwalin for that honor. Although I must admit, his braids are rather..."

"Pathetic."

"I was going to say colorful, but I suppose that works as well."

About thirty feet away sat Dwalin, back straight and head high as Frodo weaved a good luck ribbon through the braid that now ran down his neck. Balin stood off to the side, hemming and humming over the faunt's braid work and wondering if they should have gone with the red ribbon instead of the dark blue ribbon. Just like his King, Dwalin was shirtless and wearing nothing except trousers and boots, the remaining sections of his hair braided in a way that would keep it out of his face. Hair pulling wasn't permitted in combat competitions, but it wasn't unheard of for dwarves to get their ample manes and beards stuck on stuff.

More than a little amused at seeing the large dwarf in ribbons of any kind, Dís turned around with a snort and decided that another check on her brother's hair was probably in order. She expected Thorin to swat at her hands and declare Erebor's Princess to be the most annoying creature to walk Middle-Earth, but instead she found him glaring a hole through his best friend's head.

"Please tell me you aren't jealous of Dwalin's ribbons?"

Oh, the glaring was truly epic, especially since it was now directed at her. Dís sometimes wondered if her brother genuinely tried to be such a giant goober, or if it was just an unfortunate defect in the line of Durin. Emotional constipation, thy name is Thorin Oakenshield.

"I'm ashamed to be related to you, I'll have you know."

"Why are you still here?"

Dís gave the Dwarf-King her very best smile. "Because I love annoying the jewels out of you. It's like a puzzle game."

"Glad to know that you find my misery so amusing."

"It wouldn't be half as amusing if you'd pull your head out of that hairy ass of yours," said Dís as she poked at his chest and shoulder scars. "And since when has my brother, the dwarf who could barely feed his own nephews, desired cooking lessons?"

"Someone has to feed Frodo when Bilbo isn't around."

"Aye," nodded the princess, "And that would be Bombur and myself. You can burn water if you put your mind to it."

"I'm not that terrible."

"You nearly lit Kíli's head on fire when you tried to make...whatever that awful looking blob was." She shuddered at the memory. It'd taken weeks to get her baby's hair into any semblance of order. "You're almost as bad as Dori, and that's _really_ saying something."

"It was supposed to be a meat casserole."

"Poor Fíli was afraid that it was gonna try to eat his head, too." She poked at a cooking burn on Thorin's left wrist. "Honestly, I don't understand how you can cook just fine on the road, but practically burn down my well-stocked and fully functional kitchen when at home."

"He's a hazard to the health of the entire mountain."

Thorin didn't hesitate to punch his best friend in the head, easily sidestepping Frodo's small form to Dwalin's left side. Dís just shook her head in exasperation while the faunt giggled at his uncles' roughhousing, well aware that it was their particular way of showing affection to one another, even though Bilbo always made sure to tell Frodo that he was _never_ to behave in such a fashion himself.

It just wasn't hobbit-y.

"Save it for the arena, boys," snapped the princess. "You'll have plenty of time to fight over your desserts in there."

"The cupcakes will be mine."

"Traitor."

By Mahâl, someone please save her from possessive, knuckle-headed troglodytes. Even with her back turned, Dís knew that her brother was making faces and taking any hit at Dwalin that he could, jealous by the mere prospect of anyone winning Bilbo's affections besides himself. Which was completely ridiculous since Bilbo made Dwalin pumpkin cupcakes at least once a month, if not more often whenever the large dwarf watched Frodo or did an errand for him.

"You know what? I would say something, but it'll just fall on deaf ears."

It only took a few moments of their bickering for Balin to get involved, the older dwarf easily cowing both the King Under the Mountain and Captain of the Royal Guard into some semblance of submission. Meanwhile, Frodo and Donel darted around all of their feet, thoroughly inspecting the competition that Thorin and Dwalin would be facing in the arena. It was quite the biased assessment, of course, but what more could you expect from children who regularly interacted with two of the most powerful warriors east of the Misty Mountains.

And then Dís saw her opening...

Standing not even thirty feet away was Makla and the harpies, sweet smiles in place as the competitors for the combat of arms milled about, most of the males shirtless and showing off their scars and inkings. The female fighters wore fitted tunics, the whole lot of them just as prepared for battle as their male counterparts, or perhaps even more so if their facial expressions were any indication. Her brother and Dwalin would have their work cut out for them this time; many Ereborians coveted the infamous meals and desserts of their Consort, and Thorin had quite obviously underestimated just how many dwarves were willing to fight for them.

However, Dís was not concerned with these particular dwarves. Oh no, her attention was focused on the twittering harlots who were eyeing her brother and his closest friend like a slab of Dorwinion beef. All of them were wearing Durin blue as well. She was beginning to wonder if involving Nori would be worth it; Dís had seen the way he looked at Dwalin, so the Spymaster would certainly be willing to assist with her newest brand of political endeavors. And he just liked to piss people off for the shits and giggles too, which always worked in Dís' favor nowadays.

But first, there was the matter of the children. Thorin was a possessive bastard and Dís knew better than anybody else what exactly would press his berserk buttons. She just needed to give him a push in the right direction.

"Donel! Frodo! Come over here, boys!"

Just as Dís expected, her shouts earned stares for the shrieking children, who now numbered four with the sudden arrival of Dwina and Farina. Most of them came from the other competitors, soft or amused looks that spoke of the fondness that dwarves held for any child their people were lucky enough to be graced with. Unfortunately, this did not seem to apply to all of the harpies, whose expressions Dís watched very carefully. She made note of the ones who stared with scorn—likely due to the four children being welcomed and at ease with the King himself—and the ones who stared with amusement or a forgivable blankness.

"For me?"

With a blink of surprise, Dís turned to see her brother accepting a small red cloth from Farina, the little girl smiling up at her King with bright eyes and what could only be described as bushy-tailed excitement. It was downright adorable.

"Uh huh," said Farina with a nod. "It's my favor. Wanna wear it?"

"I'd be honored."

Eyes narrowed in suspicion, the princess walked a little bit closer and took a good look at the favor that Thorin was wrapping around his left bicep. The patterns were just a little different than usual, but Dís would recognize her brother-in-law's embroidery anywhere. Oh, that devious little hobbit; it seemed that dear Bilbo wasn't above using his nephews or their friends to sabotage the harpies' romantic designs. A competitor could only wear a single favor, and Bilbo was unable to offer his due to being a prize-giver, so it made sense to have another member of their trusted circle present the Dwarf-King with a good luck charm.

"Why didn't I think of that?"

King Thorin was officially taken by a thirty-year-old dwarfling. And Consort Bilbo was grinning from his place atop the podium, happily waving to Donel and Dwina after they had scaled Dwalin's shoulders to see above the crowds. With a dramatic huff, Dís looked over at the harpies and found several of them glaring at Farina and Frodo, who were both jabbering to Thorin like a clutch of newborn ravens. Two of them, including Makla, had small cloths in their hands, too.

Okay, now was the time to make her move...

"For once, you're not the person I want to punch in the teeth," said Dís, her voice low and discreet as she stood next to Thorin and the children. "It's such a rare sensation that I almost don't know how to handle it."

Thorin stood up from where he'd been speaking with Farina, head tilting to the side while both arms folded across his barrel-like chest. She was tempted to pluck a large patch of hair off of his chest—just for the sake of irritating him, of course—but Dís had bigger and smellier fish to fry at the moment. Namely the ones who were undressing her brother with their eyes. Dís had heard plenty of talk about Thorin's homely facial features, but even she couldn't deny that the rest of her brother was the epitome of dwarven masculinity. The longer beard probably helped, too.

"What are you rambling about now?"

"Nothing in particular," shrugged the princess. "But you may wish to keep Frodo close to all of us in the near future."

Oh boy, _that_ certainly caught Thorin's attention. Within less than five seconds, Frodo was scooped up into the King's arms and Farina was situated behind his legs, Thorin's whole bearing seeming to transform into that of an overprotective parent. Dwalin immediately picked up on his friend's demeanor, flipping both children down into his arms as Balin came forward to situate himself in front of them. Inwardly smirking, Dís very discreetly flicked her finger towards the horde of harpies—and that was officially their name in Dís' head now, no joke—several of whom were still glaring at the children with a jealousy that was downright stupid.

Like the King would _ever_ choose them over Frodo and his rascal-y friends. How idiotic and delusional could you be, right?

"Calm down, you paranoid lump of rocks," said Dís with yet another dramatic eye roll. It was almost like a sport, seeing if she could out-dramatic her broody older brother. "I was just referring to the nobles and their ridiculous stink-eyes. They're unhappy about our socializing with...unsavory sorts."

"I'll gladly show them something unsavory," snarled Dwalin. "They can have Grasper up their—"

"Brother!"

"We will concern ourselves with them later," said Thorin, dark eyes narrowing when the noblewomen attempted to catch his attention. "I'm growing weary of their constant fluttering about, anyways. Send a note to Nori about meeting in my chambers tomorrow morning, would you, Balin?"

"Of course. I'll inform one of the minions."

The sound of a gong interrupted Thorin's glowering, all of the competitors gathering just outside of the arenas that had been hastily constructed for Dáin's brainchild. Durin's Day competitions were a traditional part of dwarven culture and Dís was well aware that many of their people had missed the age-old practices, especially as Erebor and the Desolation were slowly but surely restored to their former glory. It seemed that her demented cousin had some bright ideas after all.

"I'll take Frodo and the children," said Dís, although her first attempt to grab Frodo was met with some resistance. Flicking Thorin on the nose seemed to do the trick, though. "Now run along and beat the snot out of each other. I expect some impressive carnage in that arena, understand?"

"You've gotta win," stated Farina, small fingers now holding onto Dís' skirts. "Kings and princes and queens are supposed to win, right?"

Dwalin was offended. "What about me?"

"Well, I guess it's okay if you win, too." Farina looked contemplative, unoccupied arm swinging back and forth as she considered the situation. "You're the King's best friend and the Guard Captain and Bilbo wouldn't mind cooking with you. Can I have some of your pumpkin cupcakes if you win?"

"Not a chance."

It was Farina's turn to look offended. "Nevermind, I don't want you to win anymore. Beat him up, Your Majesty."

"Gladly."

Another gong went off, finally forcing Thorin and Dwalin to stalk off towards the judges and check the first list of pairings per round for each individual competitor. Meanwhile, Dís and Balin made their way over to the podium, four children hanging off of their skirts and arms and robes as they maneuvered through the gathering crowds, Ori and Dori both coming to join them at some point along the way. Front row seats were one of the many perks that came with being a royal, and Dís wasn't about to pass up the chance to see her brother and Dwalin fight like they were young, immature novices again.

"I'm hungry, Aunt Dís."

The princess looked down at her nephew and said, "You just ate over three loaves of bread and who knows what else and you're _still_ hungry? Do you have a hollow leg I don't know about?"

"He's a hobbit," said Dwina, as if that explained everything. "They're like boars. Always hungry and munching on your foodstuffs."

"Ah, yes, my mistake."

Once they arrived at the podium, Balin took his seat with a groan of relief, cracking several knuckles and vertebrae while Dís attempted to rein in the four children. None of the lil' rascals were as energetic as Fíli and Kíli had been at the same age, but it still took a lot out of Dís to manage the lot of them. Thankfully, it only took one disgruntled glare and a snap of her fingers to cow the children into some semblance of order, Frodo crawling onto Dís' lap while Farina and Dwina perched themselves on the wide arms of her chair. Balin didn't object to Donel climbing into his lap either, white beard nearly obscuring the dwarfling's face from view, which the other children found to be hilarious for some bizarre reason.

By Mahâl, this had certainly turned into a long day. Thorin and Bilbo owed her a basketful of strawberry strudel when everything was said and done. A sister shouldn't have to get this involved in her brother's marriage and love life. It was far too traumatizing.

"Cousin!"

With a sigh of bereavement, Dís rubbed her eyes and said, "Do not tempt me into kicking you off this platform, Dáin. I will do it. And I will laugh about it."

"Perhaps it should be you in the arena instead of our Thorin."

"If that was the case, then there wouldn't even be need of a competition," drawled the princess. "Although I'll admit, it is quite tempting with the prospect of cooking lessons and hobbit-y desserts. Hmmm, why didn't I think of that sooner?"

"Because it would interfere with your schemes."

Dís raised an eyebrow and resituated Frodo on her lap. "And what do you know of my schemes, cousin dearest?"

"Well, Bilbo's looking awfully pretty this evening."

"And?"

"Despite what you may think," said Dáin as he plopped down in the empty chair to her right, "I'm not an unobservant imbecile. And I can see that you're trying to ward off a stampede of suitors and get Thorin's diamonds grinding at the same time. Hence, our pretty, pretty hobbit."

"I don't like this side of you, Dáin."

The Dwarf-Lord shrugged with a smug grin. "What can I say? I live to surprise people. Oh, and the badgers are beneath us. Just in case you wanted to know."

Dís gave him an epic side-eye, making a mental note to keep a closer eye on her cousin in the future. He was far too conniving for his own good and knew exactly how to hide it in plain sight. It hadn't taken long into Erebor's reconstruction for Dís to realize that a large part of Dáin's behavior off the battlefield and outside his lordly duties was a brilliant ruse. Gella had partially admitted to it. A necessary evil to cleaning out the sycophantic courts, she had said. Aye, Dís would be keeping a closer eye on her not-quite-so-insane cousin from now on.

"I'll remember that."

And then the sixteenth bell sounded, competitors spilling out of the sidelines to take their places in the arenas. Also, as Dís predicted, her cousin was practically bouncing in his seat, all too eager to see bloodshed and carnage and flying teeth. She quickly pulled Farina into her lap with Frodo, more than a little worried about Dáin's flailing arms whacking the little girl in her head. For the umpteenth time, Dís wondered what on Arda had compelled Gella to ever reproduce with him.

"Round one!" shouted Dáin. "And let's keep the bloodshed at a respectable level, my brothers and sisters!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story ended up quite a bit longer than I anticipated, but Dís is just too fun to write. She seems to get neglected a lot, including in canon, and yet I find the idea of her annoying the shit out of Thorin and pretty much ruling the kingdom from behind the throne far too tempting to not elaborate on. And for those who are worried, Bilbo has his own schemes going on. Never underestimate a hobbit on a mission. He knows what he wants and, well, Thorin _has_ what he wants.


	5. Chapter V

"I haven't missed anything, have I?"

A hand rested on Dís' shoulder, the princess nearly jumping out of her seat until she realized that that particular voice belonged to their resident hobbit. Well, the older one, that is. Frodo was busy munching on a small pile of cookies that Balin had apparently been hiding in his robes, further convincing Dís that the faunt had sprouted yet another hollow leg somewhere. He ate more than Fíli and Kíli nowadays.

"The first rounds are just about to start," said Dís. She handed Frodo over to Bilbo when Dáin allowed the hobbit to take his seat. "I believe there will six in total, if I've done the headcounts and math correctly."

Dáin nodded. "Aye, we've got sixty-four competitors in total. Had to narrow it down a bit or else we'd be going all night."

"For some reason, I think you'd enjoy that."

"You know me too well, my dear hobbit, far too well," said Dáin with a feral grin. "It'd be great fun to beat Thorin's marbles in, too; you know, for old time's sake. But alas, I've the duties of a Dwarf-Lord and at the moment, those duties entail playing judge to this fine competition."

"I'm sure it must be terribly difficult."

The red-haired lord gave Bilbo a rather epic side-eye and said, "The sarcasm is strong with you in recent years. Too much time spent with our lovely Dís, I reckon."

Said dwarf didn't hesitate to punch him in the gut. Quite hard, too.

"Now, now, no family quibbles or all out brawls, my friends," ordered Bilbo with a wave of his hand. "I believe our King and Dwalin will shed more than enough Durin blood to sate your aspirations for violence tonight. Best to keep mauling and maiming inside the arena, I say."

"I dare say," whispered Dáin, "I think we've finally corrupted the hobbit."

"Thorin will be so pleased."

With a roll of his eyes and an equally uncouth snort, Bilbo turned back to the competition and put much effort into ignoring his outrageous in-laws. Frodo was munching on his last cookie at this point, cheeks bulging out like a squirrel while his hands and face were too filthy to even speak of. The Company indulged the little boy and his friends far too much, but no amount of lecturing would dissuade them.

To be honest, Bilbo had given up on that subject years ago.

As competitors filed into their assigned arenas for the first round, Dís kept a close eye on everything taking place before them, pointing out various practices and explaining particular fight styles and moves to Bilbo and the children. Her brother was positioned not too far from the platform, paired off against a dwarf that was almost as burly and wide as Dwalin, if such a thing was even possible. He looked familiar, perhaps a royal guard or one of the various bodyguards who contracted with the Longbeard caravans; but either way, the poor lad had some truly awful luck, being paired against Thorin in his very first round.

It wasn't too hard to figure out how that match would end and yep, there he went, pinned facedown underneath Thorin's bulk. Her brother used that particular maneuver on Dwalin all the time, claiming that it was always nice to make the larger dwarf eat dirt.

"Now that was a brilliant showcase of execution," crowed Dáin. "And look, Dwalin's broken his opponent's nose. I taught him that move, you know."

"That explains a lot, I fear."

Dís watched Bilbo out of the corner of her eye throughout the proceeding rounds, happily noting the flushed cheeks and loud cheers that her brother-in-law gave whenever Thorin proved victorious over his opponents. The always triumphant Dwalin was included in these cheers too—Bilbo would never ignore one of the Company just because he was facing off against Thorin—but it was clear that their hobbit favored his husband in the competition. Biased favor was expected where marriage was involved, although Dís had a feeling that if Fíli and Kíli were participating, then Thorin would've been on the losing end of the favor-stick.

Just like her, Bilbo tended to value their three boys above all else. It was one of the reasons why Dís adored him so much.

"Must he do that?"

The princess looked down at the arenas, noting their shrinking numbers as each round passed and the rank of competitors started to dwindle. Her brother stood in one of the centermost rings, arms spread wide in victory as he felled his fourth opponent and prepared to continue into the fifth round. Thorin's bare chest and its numerous scars were on display for all to see, runic inkings standing out against his pale skin and most violent marks of battle. Azog's jagged wounds were the most prominent, almost completely covering the front and back of Thorin's right pectoral and shoulder, still an unpleasant and painful-looking red several years later. 

Of course, such battle scars were viewed as _very_ attractive traits in dwarven society, so Dís could understand why Bilbo wouldn't be pleased with Thorin being on open display for all to see and drool over. But on the other hand, the large runic inking across Thorin's upper and lower back was quite provocative. It was essentially a declaration of undying love to Bilbo, written in a poetic form of Khuzdul that Ori had had to help their King find in the Deep Archives.

And the harpies thought her brother wasn't a besotted fool. Ha!

"C'mon, Uncle Thorin!" cheered Frodo as the fifth round began. The lad quite enjoyed watching his uncle fight in the arena. "You can do it! Kick his butt!"

"Mind your manners, darling."

"There are no manners on the battlefield," said the faunt. "Nothing matters except kicking your opponent's stupid ass."

"I'm going to have a long talk with Dwalin after this."

The other children weren't much better, Donel and Farina shouting and cheering their King on all through the fight, small fists pumping in the air when Thorin physically threw his fifth opponent out of the arena. Farina was waving a matching red favor in her right hand, bouncing up and down in Dís' lap when Thorin turned around and gave a deep bow to the little girl. Even Bilbo smiled at that; Farina's excitement was infectious to everyone around her.

"And it looks like we have our two finalists," Dáin announced. "Our very own King Under the Mountain, Thorin Oakenshield, will be facing off against our Captain of the Royal Guard, Dwalin, son of Fundin!"

The roar of applause echoed through the whole chamber and its surrounding hallways, which were now packed to the wall with dwarves and the handful of skin-changers and men who'd chosen to share in their Durin's Day celebrations. Tauriel and her three companions—who had all been working as liaisons between Mirkwood and their northeastern allies since Erebor's reclamation—were the only elves in attendance, and Thorin begrudgingly tolerated their presence out of deference to the she-elf's friendship with Currin and Kíli. She was also a valuable asset to their relations with Mirkwood and some of the Forod tribes, too.

"Our people's finest warriors," said Dís with a chuckle, "Waging battle over cooking lessons and their favorite desserts. Our grandfather would be absolutely horrified."

Balin smiled at her. "Your grandmother would be most amused, though."

"You're right. She probably would've favored Dwalin just out of spite for our grandfather." She laughed at the memory of Vigdis, always so outspoken and quick to knock their father in the head. "Or she would've fought them both for the desserts. I've heard many stories about her sweet tooth."

"It's where you and the lads get it from, I wager."

"Alright, laddies, come forward and present yourselves to the judges and our prize-giver," Dáin shouted. He nudged Bilbo to stand up, Frodo still held in the hobbit's arms as he turned to face Thorin and Dwalin. "We'll have you fighting in the front and central arena, so don't try wandering off to pick up favors now."

"I don't think he'll have to worry about that."

Dís would have laughed at her brother's face if she didn't think Balin would pinch her for such an unseemly offense. The King's pupils were dilated and his posture ramrod straight, dark eyes firmly trained on Bilbo and the faunt that he held in his arms. Ah, there it was, the lethal combination of adult hobbit and baby hobbit rolled up into a single ball of Durin desire. In Thorin's mind, such an image was the ultimate form of dwarven catnip, reverting him back to the possessive fervor that was so characteristic of their race. And yet again, she would've laughed if Balin wouldn't have pinched her for it.

The King stepped forward with a bow and said, "Thorin, son of Thráin. I welcome this duel of honor in the name of Mahâl and our father Durin."

"Dwalin, son of Fundin. I too welcome this duel of honor in the name of Mahâl and our father Durin."

"And it is accepted by myself and our people," said Dáin as he and the four judges took their positions around the arena. "We will have three official rounds and whoever has the most pins will be deemed the victor. Understood?"

Both dwarves nodded, their eyes locked and stances set and no, Dís didn't miss the nasty smirks they shot at each other, either. Applause and shouts died down to silence, the entire hall seeming to wait with bated breath for the match to commence, dwarflings sitting atop their elders' shoulders in order to see the fight between their King and his greatest warrior. Most of the Company was now present on the podium, a victorious Fíli and unhappy Kíli standing at their smaller uncle's shoulders. Dís sincerely hoped that Thorin kept his focus on Dwalin; seeing a bejeweled Bilbo with all _three_ of their boys might just be too much for the smitten King.

"Assume your places and... begin!"

No sooner had the words left Dáin's mouth did the two dwarves collide, lashing out at each other with bare hands and feet in the traditional grappling style that all sons and daughters of Durin learned as small children. However, unlike most of their brethren, Thorin and Dwalin had continued to study and practice the martial art form for the rest of their years, both establishing themselves as masters within last two decades. And it _really_ showed, even to the untrained eye.

"I don't know who to cheer for," Frodo admitted. "Can't they both win?"

Dís reached out and gave her nephew a soft poke to the cheek. "I'm afraid it doesn't work like that, mizimith. But they both love our burglar, so it's alright if either of them win and get to spend their time with him, aye?"

"I suppose so." He looked thoughtful and then said, "Can I have another cookie?"

Fíli rolled his eyes. "Hobbits..."

The first round was won by Thorin, who managed to pin Dwalin beneath him with an immobilizing headlock. Apparently, as they were rising, the King had said something none-too-appreciated in Dwalin's chewed-up ear, ducking just in time to avoid a punch to the head. The judges, all of whom were familiar with the two warriors, didn't even bother to call it. Some roughhousing and jeering between best friends was to be expected in these kinds of events.

"Assume your places and... begin!"

For the second time, Thorin and Dwalin went straight for each other, hands grappling for purchase and a strong hold on their opponent's neck or underarms. Dís winced when she heard the distinctive sound of a body slamming into the ground, Thorin holding on tight to Dwalin's neck as the larger dwarf attempted to pin him in a fatal position. She scoffed at some of the crowd's reactions and had to remind herself that not everyone was familiar with her brother's and Dwalin's fighting styles. The pair trained together so often that they were like an extension of each other, easily anticipating what move or position the other would attempt to use next. Even if Dís found it a bit dull to watch due to her own knowledge of Thorin's and Dwalin's preferred strategies, the crowds were eating it up like a horde of hungry honey badgers.

"Why must they always go for the ribs?" asked Bilbo. "It seems so cruel and inappropriate."

"Just watch and enjoy the show, laddie."

"Oh yes, what a marvelous show," drawled the hobbit. "I do so enjoy watching my husband and his best friend beat the snot out of each other. And wow, that's really gonna hurt tomorrow. Or even tonight."

Thorin had just been thrown face-first into the ground, Dwalin's hand on his throat in a trademark killing position. Now they were tied one-for-one in rounds, the King slowly pushing himself to his feet as the judges announced that this would be the final round. Both dwarves had bloody mouths and at least one black eye, their hands and cheeks coming back red when they attempted to wipe at their lips.

"I actually think they're enjoying this."

Dís scoffed. "Of course, they are. For those two imbeciles, breaking noses and smashing faces is the perfect way to knock their jollies off. Or at least get prepared to knock their jollies off."

That earned her a bunch of snickers and winks from several of the Company, most of whom were in on Dís' schemes at this point. Even Bard's girls were attempting to hold in their laughter, Sigrid's face just a little red when realized to what exactly Dís was referring. The only one who wasn't paying much attention—besides the children and their resident hobbit—was Nori, whose eyes were locked on Dwalin like a hungry eagle. It was unusual for the spymaster to be out in the open during a large, important event like this, but Dís didn't doubt that two dozen or more of Nori's minions were skulking around the Great Hall.

"Assume your places and... begin!"

Cheers and shouts and hoots echoed throughout the hall as Thorin and Dwalin collided yet again, their fighting style quite reminiscent of two great bears doing battle upon a desolate hillside. Dís was happier than ever that she'd thought to tie back her brother's hair into such tight braids; with the level of viciousness in this round, it's likely that Dwalin would've ripped them out otherwise.

"Oh goodness, do they have to get so violent?" said Bilbo. "Honestly, there's no need for that kind of punching, I swear."

Bofur shrugged. "They want those desserts. Food's a good motivator."

"Is that what they're calling it nowadays?"

"Shut it, Kee."

"They're going to break each other's noses at this rate," stated the hobbit. He looked more than a little queasy when his husband spit a lump of blood onto the ground. "I'll not be stitching them up after this, nope. You can deal with their overly aggressive hides this time, Óin."

"What? Why would I want to remove their appendixes?"

"Oh, nevermind."

It was about a minute later when both dwarves were pinned to the ground, Thorin's hands holding firm to his opponent's chin and scalp in a neck-snapping position while Dwalin had his King's neck in a crushing stranglehold. Neither would be able to break their opponent's position without seriously injuring or killing one another, something that Balin immediately noted and informed the judges of. Even Dáin was willing to admit that there'd be no escaping from those holds without grievous injury, so he gave everyone a broad smile and declared a draw, claiming that they hadn't discussed or whipped up a contract to deal with such a situation.

"So, what?" asked Bilbo. "They both win?"

"Well, this isn't like the knife-throwing contest, where there was only one set of knives to be won," said the Dwarf-Lord. "Cooking lessons and desserts aren't finite, and I'd prefer to avoid a dispute of combat without a contract to back it up. The same could've applied to King Bard's competition as well."

The King of Dale looked less than thrilled about this new information.

"You dwarves write up contracts for _everything_ ," Bilbo fired back. "Why on Arda would you not do the same for this?"

"Slipped my mind?"

Bilbo probably would've scolded Dáin for all of Erebor to see if it wasn't for the sound of a throat being cleared. With a huff, the hobbit turned to his victors and gave both of them a narrow look, obviously more than a little suspicious about Thorin and Dwalin also being in on their cousin's unsubtle schemes. Apparently, this had not gone according to the burglar's plans, which Dís couldn't help snickering and gloating over.

Dwalin spoke first. "We were promised a prize, I recall."

This earned him an elbow to the ribs from Thorin, who was staring up at Bilbo like a particularly smug and eager puppy. They'd be poking at each other for weeks over this, Thorin claiming that Dwalin had cheated while Dwalin would accuse Thorin of getting old and fat in his dotage. It'd be a migraine to live with, but Dís was willing to sacrifice some sanity if it got those harpies to stop mooning over her brother.

"Oh, very well," conceded the hobbit. "Cooking lessons will begin on Trewsday evening of this coming week. If you're late, then there's no guarantee of reimbursement or selection of the meal. My poor kitchen's never gonna recover from this, I fear."

Applause and cheers went up all around the hall, many dwarves lamenting their own inability to compete for cooking lessons from the Consort himself. The new arrivals may not be well acquainted with the Burglar of Erebor's reputation, but anyone who had lived in the mountain for more than a few weeks or months was quite well-versed in the legends that surrounded Bilbo Baggins' culinary skills. Some dwarves even reckoned that hobbits were a magical folk, capable of creating the most delicious and hypnotizing of meals and that was why the peaceful, picturesque Shire was always left alone.

"Hmmm, I'm surprised my brother even managed to tie with him," Balin admitted. "Our Thorin's usually so possessive when it comes to winning his husband's attention. He will have to behave himself in the coming weeks."

Dís shrugged. "It was probably the pumpkins."

"Aye, those are quite the motivator. He covets Bilbo's cupcakes almost as much as his axes nowadays."

Both dwarves were standing with Bilbo now, covered in blood and bruises and whatever damage they had done to each other's insides. Óin was puttering around them, eyes surveying a large cut that Dwalin had taken to his bald head. Apparently, Thorin's fingernails were sharper than any of the inspectors had realized, and Dwalin looked none too happy about it.

"Would you please stop antagonizing each other," Bilbo scolded. "And let Óin do his work. Both of you look like Beorn's had a go at your thick skulls."

"Your hobbit is vicious and cruel."

"I know."

And there it was again, that ridiculously besotted and hungry look that her brother just couldn't seem to control. Thorin's fingers were running along his husband's back, an attempt at casual that was convincing nobody who actually knew him and his sentimental proclivities. A decked-out Bilbo was a very rare sight, even at an important event like Durin's Day. The hobbit just wasn't comfortable in dwarven regalia of any type, especially those that involved a lot of gemstones and precious metals, which was almost every piece in the Royal Treasury.

"How did you come upon this?" asked Thorin, bloody fingers brushing over the dragon crown with reverence. He leaned forward to steal a deep kiss. "I thought you only organized the closets during that spring cleaning obsession of yours."

"It's most certainly not an obsession," sniffed the hobbit. "And that's for me to know and for you to never find out."

"Of course, Master Burglar."

Dís knew that the only reason she was able to wrangle her brother-in-law into such extravagant clothes—by hobbit standards, of course; Bilbo was still dressed shamefully modest by dwarven—and jewels was due to her taking him by surprise. And possibly so he could use the situation to his own advantage against the harpies, too. And luckily for him, Dís was all too willing to help him on that particular front.

Then the nineteenth bell tolled...

"Oh! I almost forgot," said Bilbo, pushing Frodo into his husband's arms. "Over to the tables, my friends. Now that this whole malarkey is over, we can actually sit down and have a proper meal. Or what's left of it."

"What are you—"

"No speaking! Just get over to the tables and start eating. I'll not have a horde of hungry dwarves on my hands, absolutely not."

"Bossy and rude hobbit, too."

The Company bustled over to the royal table again, taking their seats and shoving one another as they attempted to grab whatever food was left on it. Yet another round of celebrations was taking over the hall, the musicians gathering at their assigned platforms to strike up some lively music for the clamoring crowds. Between the dancing and drinking and arm wrestling contests, Erebor was certain to be full of merriment for the remainder of the night. If there was one thing that dwarves were excellent at doing, it was throwing rowdy parties.

"Here we are," announced Bilbo, seven large boxes landing on the table's handful of empty spaces. "Thank you, laddies. Wait right here and I'll have something for you as a reward. Now, who have been good dwarves this season?"

And just like that, every dwarf at the table was vibrating with excitement, eyes flitting back and forth between the boxes and their hobbit. It was kinda pathetic in a way, but Dís wasn't about to complain. Reaping the rewards was far more pleasant than being a snot-nosed pretender, and Dís could set aside her pride for a few moments if it meant remaining in Bilbo's good graces.

Whoever said a hobbit didn't rule the Lonely Mountain was a complete idiot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously, this thing has kinda written itself, so it's gotten longer yet again. Whoops. But the next chapter _will_ be the last chapter, that I can guarantee. And I kept the fight scenes and description to a minimum! I'm very proud of myself for that. Dwalin wasn't about to give up on those pumpkin cupcakes, either. Even he has his limits as a best friend. Hell, everyone's conspiring at this point, anyways.


	6. Chapter VI

"Sit down, boys. And no peeking!"

All of the dwarves were leaning forward at this point, eyes trained on the boxes that Bilbo was sorting through with a disturbing amount of precision. Frodo probably would have scrambled up on the table if Thorin hadn't had such a tight grip on him, Dís and Balin having to do the same for the other three children, little bodies shaking with an equal level of excitement and curiosity. It was with a nod of satisfaction that Bilbo finished rustling through the first box, small hands emerging with a package wrapped in brown cloth.

"Since hobbits traditionally give gifts to their loved ones during important celebrations, I thought Durin's Day would be an appropriate time to make up for all of the birthdays and Yules and Lithes that I've missed over the past few years," said Bilbo. "At least in a small way. Now that we and the mountain are in a more comfortable position, I don't feel so terrible for splurging a bit. Balin?"

"Oh, laddie, you didn't have to."

Bilbo smiled at the old dwarf and held up the package. "But I wanted to, my friend. Now come here and get your pumpkin cobbler."

"Sweet Valar, bless you hobbits and your love of food."

With a laugh of delight, Balin pulled their burglar into a warm hug and then smelled the package, unlacing the strings while releasing an intoxicated sigh. That reaction was usually par for the course with all Bilbo's delicious creations. And then the pumpkin cobbler was brought into view, crispy and crumbly and beautiful in all the right ways; it was a sight fit for Mahâl himself.

"Ah, no, no! You keep your fingers to yourself, brother! I'll not have your grubby mitts stealing my cobbler again." 

Dwalin pouted, eyes locked on the pumpkin delicacy.

"You can eat whenever you'd like," said Bilbo as he picked up another package. "Nori?"

The spymaster seemed to pop up from out of nowhere. "I am forever indebted, dearest burglar, and if you ever need another Ironfist or assassin stabbed in the back, I'm your dwarf."

"Just take the sticky buns, Nori."

"In case anybody was wondering," said the thief around a mouth of raspberry deliciousness, "My allegiance is dedicated and sworn to the royal who feeds me. He gets my protection first."

Thorin scowled. "I should hope so."

"You dwarves are so melodramatic," grumbled Bilbo. "Now let's see here... Fíli?"

The crown prince nearly toppled out of his chair, behaving much like the small, excitable boy that Dís had loved to cuddle and dote on. She missed that little boy sometimes, and the fact that Bilbo was able to coax him out from time to time was enough to bring tears to her eyes. Well, okay, the whole shoving Kíli in the head thing wasn't too cute, but you couldn't have everything with three boys under the same roof.

"I swear, if you nearly bite my fingers again, we've going to have issues," warned Bilbo. "Oh, don't look so pathetic. Ah! Watch the teeth!"

"You're my favorite uncle."

Bilbo patted his oldest nephew on the head, looking more than a little smug as Fíli wolfed down his first vanilla cupcake. The prince's moans of delight drew the attention of several harpies and Dís wasted no time in glaring their beards off. If they came near her babies like they did to Thorin, there would be hell to pay, and in copious amounts. She would even enlist Bilbo's help if the situation called for it.

"Next I'll need... Gimli?"

This continued on for several minutes, each dwarf receiving a large package of their favorite desserts, Bilbo somehow not forgetting a single person at the table. When Dala asked how such a feat was possible, the hobbit just shrugged and chalked it up to having more relatives than the dwarves could ever hope to count. The merest mention of quadruplets and over ninety first-cousins was enough to make Dís' uterus ache with sympathy for hobbit women. By Mahâl, how was it even possible to physically carry and then deliver _four_ children at the same time?

"You're a miracle," said Dáin, mouth full of apple spice cake. "An absolute fucking miracle. Why aren't there more hobbits living here? It's a travesty."

"Because they'd die of shock before even making it to Rivendell."

The guards that Bilbo had wrangled into helping him were all munching on an enormous pile of sugar cinnamon cookies, perfectly content in following Dís' discreet orders to remain within short distance and act as a silent deterrent to any unsavory folks who tried to approach the royal table. Iglishmêk was such a marvelous language; no wonder Nori loved it so much.

"Uncle's getting touchy again," said Kíli, face covered in crumbs from his strawberry cheesecake. "Look over there. Oh, I think he's about to explode with sexual frustration, just look at that broody face."

With a glance to the table's end, Dís spotted her brother and Bilbo, the latter speaking to the former in hushed tones while everyone else laughed and partied around them. The hobbit was holding one of Thorin's hands, smiling up at him with a twinkle in his eye that Dís had become all too familiar with during their acquaintance. Oh, that devious burglar was up to something, and it seemed that he was finally making his move. And from the expression on Thorin's face, it was working like an Easterling charm.

"Maybe his eye will start twitching again."

They watched as Bilbo leaned forward, whispering something in Thorin's ear before backing away with a smile. It was only out of happenstance, but Dís' eyes then noticed something interesting: Thorin didn't have a package in his hand. Or one resting on the table. She would've thought more on it if Bilbo hadn't shuffled back and disappeared into the crowds. Awww, her brother looked so lost, the poor sap.

"Huh, that wasn't suspicious at all."

The King just stood there, face twisted into a constipated expression that Dís didn't even want to think about. A few moments passed before Thorin walked to the opposite side of the table, grabbed a still-munching Frodo under the armpits, and threw the little boy into the air, easily catching the child when he came flying back down. It was a good thing Bilbo had left, because Thorin would be a dead dwarf if the hobbit caught him throwing Frodo around like that. With a final kiss to Frodo's cheeks, Thorin handed the faunt over to Bofur, said a few words, and turned towards the direction that Bilbo had gone.

"I'd say it's about time to run some interceptions," stated Fíli. "I'll get Gimli and Helm if you warn the others. Amad?"

Dís took a final bite of her strawberry strudel and said, "I'll follow them. Your uncle appears to have his own plan going on, and I think it involves the skin-changers, so you may want to find the badgers. Keep an eye on Frodo and Donel, would you?"

"We'll cuddle them to pieces."

It only took a few moments, but by the time Dís finally managed to extricate herself from an overly cheerful and drunk Dáin, the King and Consort had already disappeared into the crowds. Her boys and the rest of the Company had obviously been successful in their interception runs; perhaps a little too successful, since she couldn't find either target anymore.

"Nothing's ever easy, is it?"

Thankfully, it wasn't that hard to find a skin-changer in the Great Hall, their tall and bizarre features lending to a distinct lack of anonymity among a people who were known and named for their stoutness. Currin was sitting at a table with Tauriel and the other elves, a half-dozen of Erebor's more open-minded merchants and guards watching the card game they were playing. Several of Currin's kin were present as well, but Dís preferred to work with a familiar nose if she was able to, and Currin had the sharpest nose in the kingdom.

"Could I perhaps borrow Sister Currin for a moment?"

A few growls passed between the wolves before Currin stood up and handed the cards to Tauriel, jerking her head as an invitation for Dís to lead the way. After giving a smile to everyone else at the table, Dís pulled the skin-changer to the side and decided to go with the most direct approach possible. Currin was always most cooperative when you didn't try to bullshit her.

"I need you to track down my brother and the hobbit."

Currin just stared at her. "And I suppose this has to do with the schemes that my kin have been assisting with in recent days?"

"Perhaps."

"Then I suppose I have no choice but to help you," said Currin. "For the good of the kingdom."

"Why are you smiling?"

"I believe you can blame that reaction on your youngest son," stated the wolf. She was already walking towards an adjoining hallway, easily steering Dís through the crowds with her superior height. "Kíli was _quite_ disgruntled after losing his contest to a nomadic dwarfling from the Orocarni Mountains—and one who doesn't even have whiskers or a hint of stubble yet!—so I figure that a bit of good news is vital to his self-esteem and sanity at this point."

Dís laughed at the taller female and said, "You just want to torture him with traumatizing stories about his uncles grinding their jewels together."

"I'll admit, it's quite tempting."

With Currin's trusty nose, it only took a few minutes to locate Bilbo and Thorin, who had apparently decided that an envoy lounge right next to the throne room's western entrance was the perfect place to jump each other's bones. Dís didn't even need the skin-changer to tell her that they were in there. Oh no, the moaning and grunts were more than enough to pique Dís' ears. She had stumbled upon the horny couple more times than she could count over the years, ranging from Dwalin's office and the third floor armory to the kitchen pantries and Dís' own receiving room.

They had both earned a whack over the head for that one, although she'd been slightly sympathetic. Thorin had been ambushed by orcs while personally overseeing a patrol of the mountain's eastern foothills and even Dís had been worried when none of the dwarves had reported in by sunset. Only two dwarves had been lost in the skirmish, but that hadn't stopped Thorin's guilt or his need to reconnect with another living, breathing creature.

Unfortunately, said living, breathing creature had been sitting on Dís' favorite couch. In her receiving room. And he was married to her horny brother. Yeah, that couch was located in a far off corner nowadays, well away from Dís' traumatized eyes and mind.

"Are you satisfied?"

Currin had a knowing look on her face, quite obviously amused with what she considered the strange proclivities of all those who couldn't hear or smell everything within a half-mile radius. The princess really didn't want to know what the wolf was smelling or hearing right now, either. Nope, not even Dís needed nor wanted to be that involved in her brother's love life.

"Well, I'd say Thorin is."

Now that earned her a toothy smile. "He's certainly on his way to being that, if you understand my meaning. I've smelled their coital stink more than enough times to know what keeps that dwarf and his halfling satisfied."

"There's no need to elaborate, I can assure you."

"And I can assure you that you won't want to stay here much longer," said the wolf. Her head tilted, pointed ears picking up some noise that Dís could never hope to hear, golden eyes narrowing as she glanced down the hall. "It would seem that we've been followed. Part of your plan as well?"

"Oh, don't look at me like that. I know you and the badgers were working for Bilbo."

"He's kind to us."

Dís nodded and said, "Aye, that is. Something about you hairballs really sticks with him, I think."

It was that blunt statement that gave Dís pause. No deceptions, no hesitation, just the plain truth. Humans and elves and dwarves all played politics so often, mostly in a desperate bid to come out on top, be it for themselves or their people, that it was still surprising and a little bizarre to interact with a race who saw no need to cover their intentions with honeyed words or beat around the proverbial bush. Beorn and Currin and their kin were a little frightening, no doubt about it, but they were also genuine in their statements and honest to a fault.

At least she didn't have to worry about them stabbing her in the back. When skin-changers were ticked off, they let everything and their mother know about it. If there was an insult flung and throat-ripping to be had, Currin and her toothy lot would announce it for the whole mountain and Dale to hear, allowing innocents some time to duck and cover. And in Dís' world, that was always a plus.

"The door's still cracked a bit," Currin whispered. "Would you like me to—"

"Ahhhhh!"

Both of their eyes widened at the shriek, Dís' face going more than a little red when she heard her brother's answering groans. Okay, well, that was more than enough for tonight. She had done her sisterly duty and finagled the two knuckleheads into all but jumping each other in public, Thorin making it abundantly clear that he was stupidly head-over-heels for his butterball of a husband. And damn, was Bilbo ever _loud_ when his gears got to grinding. Or, as Nori liked to say, he was a real squealer in the sack.

Mahâl save her poor, traumatized ears...

"The rats with beards are coming, so I'll be leaving now," said Currin, shaking her head in wonderment as she disappeared into the throne room. The guards would allow her to use it as a shortcut; skin-changers didn't give a shit about jewels. "Why not just mark each other in public? Keep things simple. And why the raspberries? Dwarves are so strange..."

"Ohhh! Thorin!"

Dís snickered and clapped her hands, signaling that her job was over.

With a new hop in her step, the princess made her way down the corridor with a shit-eating smile, ticking off the seconds in her mind. And true to her predictions, not even thirty seconds had passed before Makla and her posse of twittering friends came around the corner. Dís continued forward, valiantly fighting to suppress the gloats and none-too-friendly taunts that she wanted to hurl at the other dwarves. But she was Dís, daughter of Drís, and she wasn't about to sully her family's reputation by throwing another dwarf down an air chute.

Nope, she'd leave that honor to Thorin.

Footsteps slow and purposeful, Dís meandered down the hallway and breezed past several lounges that Erebor used for dwarven envoys, putting on an air of confusion and frustration. The idiots would probably assume that she was looking for her brother and couldn't find him, so they'd likely take it as an opportunity to look for the lonesome, companionless Dwarf-King themselves. And what a discovery that would be!

"Good evening, ladies," greeted Dís when she walked past them. "Be careful of the northwestern halls if you're going that way. Construction's finally underway on them."

"Of course, Your Highness, thank you for the warning."

"Have a good evening, Your Grace."

"Aye, we'll be careful."

"Take care and have a good night, Your Highness."

With that done, Dís gave them a nod and continued down the hall, stopping just around the corner so that she could hear the inevitable echoes that would reverberate down Erebor's stone passages. It was quiet for a few minutes, the only sounds in the hallway coming from small windows and doors that led to the Gallery of Kings and its Durin's Day festivities. She'd never admit to it, of course, but Dís was almost bouncing on her toes when the first shouts echoed in her ears, Thorin's infuriated baritone seeming to shake the very walls of Erebor.

"They're even stupider than I thought," said Dís when her brother _really_ started shouting in earnest. "Interrupting a buggering session between our King and his darling, bejeweled Consort? Maybe they do have a death wish."

If she hadn't had two small boys to tend to, then the princess probably would've stayed longer to eavesdrop, but the toll of the twentieth bell signaled Frodo's and Donel's bedtime and Dís really didn't want to deal with a pair of sleep-deprived monsters tomorrow morning. Thorin and Bilbo would have their night together and Dís would be a good little sister and watch the boys in the interim. Plus, Thorin was always more tolerable after a long night of fucking and cuddling with his hobbit. He was even willing to smile in public sometimes if it was a particularly good romp in the sack.

"Well, I'll count this as a victory."

And with that, Dís headed back towards the Gallery of Kings, whistling the whole way until it finally drowned out Thorin's shouts. She could assess her schemes and their overall success tomorrow; for now, she wanted some mulled wine, Bilbo's strawberry strudel, and two stinky little boys to not fight her about bath time. Fíli and Kíli were terrible influences when it came to bubble baths and tidal waves. Corrupting Frodo and his friends was one of their favorite hobbies in recent months, something that had caused Dís to wonder if strangling one's offspring was frowned upon in all circumstances.

"I need a drink," said Dís when she stepped into the Great Hall and saw Kíli dancing around the tables with his archers. "Preferably one that'll wipe my mind clean of this whole day's happenings."

The sight of her youngest son toppling onto the badgers was enough to make her wince in sympathy. He'd be feeling that tomorrow. Or perhaps he wouldn't, depending on which limbs the sisters decided to rip off. Maybe this was why Thorin enjoyed pointing out Kíli's status as the royal spare...

"A very strong drink."

**_Several hours later, Sterday, tenth bell..._ **

Dís was up bright and early the next morning, a breakfast of honeyed oatmeal, scrambled eggs, and orange slices waiting for her atop the smoking table in her brother's receiving room. A thoroughly tuckered out Frodo still slept in her bedchambers, snuggled deep in the quilts and furs of her massive bed with Rupert and Donel at his side, neither child stirring in the slightest when Dís awoke and readied herself for yet another day of negotiations and guild-busting. She wasn't looking forward to Dori's weekly reports, especially since she'd heard some nasty rumors about the latest feud between the Weaver and Carpenter Guilds.

"Why couldn't Fíli and Kíli be so well-behaved?" mumbled the princess around a mouthful of oatmeal. "My life would've been so much easier. No burnt kitchens or shattered vases or bi-monthly arrows through my dining room window. It's all Víli's fault. They get it from him, I swear."

She sifted through a pile of excavation quotas, more than a little worried about the large number of accidents that had been occurring in Erebor's newly opened aquamarine and silver mines. Because of this, she almost didn't hear the distinctive creak of her brother's bedroom door, nor the quiet footsteps that padded across the warg-fur carpet. Dís would've snickered if Bilbo hadn't looked so pathetic, curls scattered all over the place while he hobbled along in a befuddled daze, yawning and groaning and rubbing at his goopy eyes.

It was kinda adorable, in a don't-think-about-it way. Thorin _was_ her brother, after all.

"Well, well, well," drawled Dís, a knowing smile stretching across her face. "I see someone's had a _long_ night. And it looks like everything I heard from a little birdy was true. Having some difficulty walking there, my dear?"

The hobbit froze mid-stride, eyes wide as he turned to stare at his sister-in-law with horror. Bilbo was clad in nothing except a large nightshirt, which was so wide and long that Dís didn't doubt for a second that it belonged to her brother. The neckline fell off of Bilbo's left shoulder, exposing an interesting array of love bites all along the hobbit's pale skin. Well, okay, it wasn't quite so pale anymore, at least not with the level of blushing that Bilbo seemed to be experiencing. He looked like one of his prized tomatoes, bright red and plump all over.

"However, I have to say: the throne room, Bilbo? I thought you had more sense than that."

And if that wasn't the nastiest glare Dís had ever received, then she'd be lying through her pearly white teeth. For someone so small and half-naked and limping, Bilbo could sure muster up a lethal amount of venom, nose and eyebrows and cheeks all scrunched up while he pointed with menace at the receiving room doors. It appeared that some poor soul wouldn't be getting their favorite desserts any time soon.

"I'm gonna kill Nori."

"Oh, I wasn't referring to him," said Dís, head tilting towards the balcony gardens. "The ravens have been chattering about it all morning. Thankfully, Roäc saw fit to inform me of the gossip when he brought in Sigrid's latest report on wheat yields. It'll be all over the city by high noon, just to forewarn you."

Bilbo rubbed at his face. "They were in the rafters, weren't they?"

"Several dozen, I reckon."

"Forget about Nori and the guards," said the hobbit with an irritated huff, "I'm gonna kill Thorin. He had to have known they were up there."

"I doubt he cared. Too busy trying to bugger your bum."

"Dís!"

"What? I call it as I see it. And there was much seeing of it yesterday, I can assure you."

"You're awful. Just plain awful."

"I know."

A loud groan came from the bedroom doorway, the King of Erebor stretching to and fro as he attempted to locate his wandering hobbit. Unfortunately, this also resulted in him running into a wall, but Dís knew not to expect miracles out of her brother this early in the morning. Or after an intensive bout of lovemaking with his Consort. Thorin's mushball brain usually needed several hours to reconstruct itself after the latter one, and sometimes even that wasn't enough. The princess sighed, inwardly lamenting that Open Court wasn't until Trewsday afternoon.

"Enjoy your Dragon-Riddler, nadad?"

Thorin wrapped his arms around Bilbo and released another loud groan. "Go away, Dís. It's far too early for your badgering. But _you_... come back to bed, sanmizim. I found some more in the icebox. It's still chilled and perfect."

And just like that, Dís knew what her brother-in-law had done. Oh, that sneaky, sneaky little hobbit. He'd played her brother and everyone else like a fiddle, using what had to be the most simple plan of them all. How could she not have seen it?! It was right there under her nose all along, sitting in seven nondescript boxes and dozens of little brown packages.

"The iceboxes! That's why you went to the lounges. They have iceboxes."

With an innocent smile, Bilbo plucked the small round dish out of his husband's hand and lifted up the spoon, taking a long lick of the creamy brown substance that coated it. Thorin groaned again, leaning down to lick the spoon that Bilbo held up to him. It was downright obscene and Dís was now considering the merits of dropping her stuff and making a break for the doors. Keeping Frodo and Donel in her rooms last night was definitely the right choice, she could see that now.

"Mousse is always best when it's chilled."

So, with that said, Bilbo and his little container of raspberry and chocolate mousse were dragged back into the King's bedchambers, neither of the lovebirds even bothering to close the doors behind them. All it took was one loud moan and squeal for Dís to beat it the hell out of there.

"I think we've created a monster," Dís whispered to herself. "A terrible, mousse-driven monster."

"Amad?"

"Don't go anywhere near your uncles' rooms today. I mean it," Dís ordered her sons. Both of them just stared at her, eyes wide as they turned to the King's receiving room doors. "Let's just go and ready your cousin and Donel for the day. I'll return for my reports later."

"Thorin!"

If possible, their eyes widened even further. Poor Fíli couldn't seem to decide if he should be amused or nauseous, face shifting back and forth between the two. Kíli looked all around traumatized, though.

"Oh, Mahâl, was that what I think it was?"

Dís grabbed the two by their arms and said, "It was exactly what you think it was. Now c'mon, I'd rather not listen to your uncle buggering Bilbo's chocolate-covered bum all afternoon. We've a faunt and dwarfling to attend to. C'mon!"

"What about the guards?"

The princess turned to look at the red-faced guards and took pity, saying with a wave of her hand, "Reassume your positions further down the corridor, near the main doors to the Royal Wing. No one will be able to enter this hall from either direction, so that will work just fine. No need to torture yourselves. Now get to it."

"Ahhhh! Thorin!"

"Walk faster, Fíli! Faster, faster!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Food = Bilbo's plan. Simple, straightforward, incredibly effective. If you want to capture and bed a Thorin, just place raspberry and chocolate mousse in strategic locations around the city. And we're done here! I hope everyone enjoyed this little story, which ended up being longer and sillier than I originally anticipated. I may write a short prequel to _An Unexpected Addition_ in the near future, focusing on the aftermath of the Battle of the Five Armies and Bilbo's eventual return to the Shire. We'll just have to wait and see. Toodles!


End file.
